The Damned and the Fallen
by Neckee777
Summary: Collab w/ NerdyChicksHaveMoreFun: Uneasy peace has descended on Skyrim, but the death of an emperor will spark cataclysm that could spell the end of Nirn. The arrogant refuse aid and the wary refuse to give it, and amongst the chaos, unlikely heroes must let go of everything they know to rise to the occasion. An enemy rises from the Void, and happy endings seem unlikely...
1. Chapter 1 - Hail Sithis

**Chapter 1: Hail Sithis**

As she swam towards the waiting ship, Ria Verres reflected that Momma was wrong about two things.

For one, Momma had always thought that living in the land-locked plains of Whiterun meant that learning to swim was a waste. Other than knowing how to tread water enough to stay afloat, one needed no other water survival skills than a good voice to call for help; learning a more in-depth swimming practice only took time away from chores or family bonding. Ria was glad the she and Jared had snuck out long enough to swim, though, even if it did get them both in trouble; she couldn't think of the number of times she'd had to travel long distances over water. Being able to approach the moored Katariah undetected was certainly one of the better benefits of the skill.

The second thing her mother was wrong about, was that her lack of need to hear herself talk would hold her back in life. The entire sanctuary had been constantly badgering Lucian about who would get to assassinate the Emperor ever since they'd got the contract, and the young Listener had quickly grown tired of it. Ria and Jared had been the only ones who didn't try to sway him to their cases, and she suspected that that was part of the reason why he had assigned her to the job; she had a hunch that he'd been planning on giving it was to her or Jared just to spite the relentless vultures who tried to make his decision for him.

Normally the others would have let Lucian lead as he saw fit, not caring what they were directed to do as long as they got the thrill of the hunt and a good sum of gold every now and then. The assassination of the Emperor was different; this was something monumental, historical, and to be the one to deliver the blow was the chance of a lifetime. Jared had said, privately, that it was that way of thinking that should had greatly limited the pool of people Lucian could pick for this job; someone professional was needed, someone who could get in and do the deed without emotions getting in the way. By that logic, that left Jared, Ria, and the Listener himself. And Lucian could not leave the Sanctuary without a half-mad, jester-Keeper trailing him like a lost puppy. So it was down then to Jared or Ria. Neither of them had had any particular desire to risk their hides on an Oculatus-infested boat, so Lucian had decided for them who had to take the bullet; Ria got the short straw.

It had taken several weeks of preparation, sprinkling in other assassinations to draw the Emperor into Skyrim. There'd been the Emperor's cousin, murdered at her own wedding, then a Stormcloak higher-up who spoke out against allowing any Imperial force back in the country, even if it was just the elderly Emperor and acouple Penitus Oculatus agents there to attend a funeral. When Titus Mede II had finally arrived, graciously allowed in Skyrim for no longer than two weeks by King Ulfric, the son of the Oculatus Commander was the next to fall. Babette had been the one to advise that; even if Maro wouldn't take leave to attend his own son's funeral, it would wound him enough that he would be distracted, and that would allow the Brotherhood an opportunity to strike.

Instead, all it got was Maro's undying hatred, which he had clearly expressed by setting a trap for them. When Ria had posed as a kitchen servant and slipped some poison into a fake Emporer's dinner, Maro and a handful of guards had been waiting on the bridge she used as an escape route. She'd managed to get a sword away from one of the Oculatus agents, and Jared had helped pick off some of them from the ground with a bow, buying her escape. This time, though, they were sure she was targeting the real Emperor; the fact that she had to swim to reach him was a logical nudge in the direction of this assumption.

After several minutes the ship loomed over her, and she silently circled around until she found the anchor. The chain attached to it was as big around as Ria's arm, providing enough space in the individual rungs for her to find foot and hand holds. She shimmied up it until she hung out of the water, waiting for it to stream back off her body in an attempt to minimize dripping once inside the ship. After acouple minutes of dangling in the cool night air, she silently continue up the chain, reaching the hull and pulling herself up into the opening made for the anchor to be drawn in through. She crouched behind a stack of crates, taking in her surroundings.

A voice sounded from in front of her, an Imperial accent clearly distinguishable.

"And that's the last one. Alright, enough of this." he says, and Ria stiffened at his nearness, drawing her orcish bow silently and peeking around from the small mountain of crates. A lone sailor rose from his spot on the ground, turning to go up a small flight of stairs, and Ria shrank back, allowing him to exit. She counted off a minute in her head, then followed, bow still at the ready and an arrow notched. She mounted the steps and press herself against another stack of crates at their summit, ears attuned to every sound. Most obvious of these was the sound of a hammer on metal; it sounded like someone's working a forge. But she could hear no other human presence, so she crept towards a corridor slightly to the left. Ria turned down it, only to freeze in her tracks.

At the end of the hallway, a door opened up to a bedroom, and a sailor stood in the doorway, his mouth open in surprise. Had Ria been standing still, he might not have seen her in the shadow the torches threw on the wall, but he'd seen her in the movement to turn the corner. His mouth opened wider, a split-second away from raising the alarm. In that split second, Ria drew the bow back and loosed the arrow, catching him right between the eyes. The sailor fell back and to the ground with no sound other than a soft 'thump'.

That sound, however, was apparently enough to bring another man- a Penitus Oculatus agent- running; he flew into view from the left and turns into the bedroom, never once looking in Ria's direction. As soon as he was inside the room, she loosed a second arrow, sending him to the ground on top of his comrade.

She waited acouple seconds, and when no one else appeared, continued down the hallway, taking a right turn and peering into the room the Oculatus agent came from. It was a dining room, and when a quick scan revealed no signs of life and a stairway across from her, she darted for it. Above, voices floated down, and she eased up the steps. They let out with only acouple feet between until the wall in front of her, forcing one to face the same direction of the stairs to continue deeper into the ship, and when she did she once again went stock-still. A square gap had been set into the floor to provide something akin to a balcony, and it allowed a view of the dining room below. Across this balcony from her, two soldiers lounged across a table from each other. They were the source of the voices, and were so absorbed in their conversation that even the Oculatus agent facing Ria didn't notice her drawing her bow back until an arrow had been implanted in his cranium.

The other soldier was up instantly, his sword already halfway out of its sheath when a knife buried itself to the hilt in his throat. He staggered once, locked eyes with the half-Imperial assassin, and promptly tumbled over the railing to the dining table below. The crash reverberated through the air, and the sound of steel being hammered stopped short, leaving the ship eerily silent.

"Sithis help me." Ria growled under her breath, more on edge than actually afraid. Shouts quickly rang through the air, alarmed at the loud noise, and from her floor Ria could hear boots pounding the ground, coming in her direction. She looked around frantically, and her eyes landed on a door behind her.

It was locked, and with a curse Ria frantically fumbled out her picks and began working on it. The owner of those boots was drawing closer, and the tumblers were difficult. Her hands moved on autopilot while she calculated the time it would take for the man to round the corner to the stairs and see her. Ten seconds. The lockpick almost broke. Five. She was close. Three.

The lock gave up its resistance with an almost inaudible click, and Ria threw the door open, dove through, and yanked it shut. She locked it back and drew in a deep breath, turning to survey her new surroundings, only to have a soldier run smack into her.

His eyes were still clouded from sleep, having been roused at this ungodly hour of the mourning by the commotion outside his bedroom corridor. Ria saw his eyes widen as he took in her garb, the red and black leather of the Dark Brotherhood, and alertness and alarm came to his eyes. It wasn't in time, though, because as soon as he seemed to register her identity, Ria drew the Blade of Woe and plunged it into his lower neck, clamping a gloved hand over his mouth and releasing the knife to guide the soldier to the floor.

It took only moments for him to bleed out, his jugular and windpipe both severed, and Ria dragged his body into the nearest bedroom-which, thank the gods, was empty. She shut the door, leaving the body hopefully concealed inside, and continued at a faster clip through the hallways; the guards would be on high alert now, and she wagered she had only acouple moments before she was fighting off a horde of Imperials.

There was another bedroom off this hallway, one the left side this time, and she quickly silenced the two men still somehow asleep inside, picking them off from the doorway with her bow. Ria then shut the door and half-sprinted down the hallway, making a right turn where it ended and then another right turn up some stairs. The alarm had gone up fully now, and she could distantly hear the soldiers trying to open the very door she had lock-picked open only moments before. She silently congratulated herself on having the foresight to re-lock it behind her.

Silence was out the window; she flew up the stairs regardless of who heard her, frantically searching the landing for the door to the Emperor's quarters (as she knew they had to be on this floor). Her momentary excitement at finding her destination quickly vanished when she set to work on the door's tumblers.

_Oh joy of joys, another lock,_ Ria thought sarcastically. This one took almost three times as long as the first one, but eventually it did click open. Ria quickly pocketed the picks and drew her Blade of Woe, easing the door open and slipping inside.

The Emperor of Tamriel was sitting behind a desk perhaps five yards into the room, regarding the assassin calmly. Ria drew herself up to her full height under his gaze and shut the door behind her, flicking the lock back into place with her thumb, her eyes never leaving her target. But the old man didn't make any move to flee or fight, and, suspicious, neither did Ria. After a second, the ruler spoke.

"And, once more, I prove Commander Maro the fool. He tried to assure me that he would keep me from harm, but I told him you can't stop the Dark Brotherhood. Never could."  
When the Emperor spoke, Ria noted that he spoke formally, with what she had long ago deemed a 'politician's accent'; a shorter pause between sentences, and a longer pause between the first and second words of a new sentence. His tone was passive, calm, and Ria adjusted her grip on her knife, the closest she came to shifting nervously.  
"Come now, don't be shy. You haven't come this far just to stand there gawking."

Ria promptly clamped her mouth shut, not having realized that it hung slightly open, and took a few cautious steps forward. Her eyes darted around the room, scanning the floor for pressure plates and trip wires, studying the corners of the room for hidden guards, looking for _anything_ that could explain why Titus Mede II was so calm about her presence. But to her shock, she made it to the desk uninjured, standing there uncertainly as the emperor rose from his chair so that neither of them was talking down to the other.

"You were expecting me?" Ria asked after a second; she meant it to be a statement, but her confusion and suspicion produced a different result.

"But of course. You and I have a date with destiny. So it is with emperors and assassins, hmm?" The idea dawned on her then, that Titus was saying that he accepted his demise. It set Ria on edge, only reaffirming the idea that he had something planned that would kill her and allow him to get away. Mede didn't seem to notice, though, continuing on. "Yes, I must die. And you must deliver the blow. It is simply the way it is."

For a moment, Ria thought something about his words rung with the echo of comfort, but she didn't know if that were for her or himself. _Most likely the latter. _

"But I wonder, would you suffer an old man a few words before the deed is done?"

Ria thought the question ironically funny for two reasons: one, he'd _just now_ decided to ask to be allowed to prattle on, despite the fact that he'd already done more talking than most of her targets; and two, a blue-blood emperor was asking a half-breed criminal for permission to do anything.

"Of course." Ria responded, voice genuinely respectful. If she had gotten one thing from her father other than skill with a bow, it was a sense of honor, and last words were a right she always granted if it were asked of her- though it rarely was.

"I thank you for your courtesy. You will kill me, and I have accepted that fate. But I ask of you a favor." This statement caught Ria's interest; last words were one thing, but last requests were another. No one had yet to offer one of the latter, probably not trusting an assassin to follow through on them. "While there are many who would see me dead, there is one who set the machine in motion. This person, whomever he or she may be, must be punished for their treachery. Once you have been awarded for your assassination, I want you to kill the very person who ordered it."

That sentence might as well have been in Elvish for how well she processed it. _Kill a client? Lucian would have my hide for that. Wouldn't he? But if I got the payment first, who I kill on my free time is my business. _

She shoved her shock and questions away, focusing again at the task at hand. Titus Mede, having not yet gotten a response, added, "Would you do me this kindness?"  
Ria nodded, regardless of the fact that she hadn't made up her mind on that one yet; an outright no seemed cruel in a way she would not indulge. "You have my word that I'll try my best. No more."

_Though I doubt the word of a cutthroat is worth much. _

"Thank you. Now, on to the business at hand I suppose, hmm?"

He rose, walking to one of the windows that took up much of the room's back wall and staring serenely out of it, his back to her.

It all took her a moment to process. Her assassination jobs might have occasionally odd circumstances, but never once had her quarry, knowing of it's impending death, been so… honorable about it. Some ran, some begged for their lives, some fought, some faced death with no fear of it but hate for their killer. None of them were polite, and none of them had the foresight or cleverness to use their last request to take a sort of revenge.

_Lucian did say that this would be an experience like no other. _Ria was dimly aware of thinking.

She slowly made her way towards the elder man, making sure her feet caused no sound; she suspected the fear of death was worse than the actual thing itself, and the only kindness she ever provided for her victims- when she provided any at all- were making sure they died unaware and instantaneously. She stopped arm's length away from Mede, preparing herself for the actual deed.

It'd been a long time since she felt the twinges of guilt, but perhaps that was because it'd been a long time since she'd killed someone who she believe didn't deserve it.  
In one swift motion, she plunged her blade into the base of Mede's skull, severing both his spinal cord and brain stem. She quickly yanked the knife out to catch the body as it fell, guiding it gently to the ground. His eyes were still open, and for once it unsettled her, so she deviated from what she normally did and closed them, then folded his hands on his chest.

_May you walk with your divines,_ she thought, echoing, as she always did, her father whenever he had had to take a life. It was as close to praying as she usually got in her life.  
Then the lock on the door turned, opened by a key from the outside. Ria hadn't even heard the guards reach the landing outside, but the minute she heard the door start to open she busted out one of the windows with her elbow and leapt through, her feet hitting the miniscule balcony outside just as an arrow, it's fletching the red and black of the Imperial Legion, came sailing out after her, thumping into the railing to her right.

Shouts erupted behind her, and Ria did not hesitate to place a hand on the balcony and swing herself over it, plummeting into the chilly waters below. She didn't take time to open her eyes before she was swimming in what she knew was towards the opposite shore, holding her breath and staying a good three feet below the surface to avoid taking an arrow from the guards.

She surfaced perhaps two and a half minutes later, gasping for breath. She could still hear the frantic guards from behind, but the sound was distant, unthreatening. Nevertheless, she drove herself forward, cutting through the water as land loomed ever closer.

The Emperor was dead, but that didn't mean she was out of danger. Now she was required to deliver the good news to the client, a man named Motierre who was a snake if there ever was one. He would give her the location of the Brotherhood's payment, which Ria had been order to retrieve.

The issue had come up that it was too much of a risk to leave one person to transport all of their promised gold; assassins were skilled, but not invincible. If something happened to her, certain brothers and sisters had argued, they would have put in much work and risk and have nothing to show with it. To answer this problem, Lucian had allowed her to select one of her brothers or sisters to escort her from Solitude, to Whiterun, to the dead drop.

The others might have called it favoritism when they thought she wasn't listening, but Ria thought her choice perfectly logical. Jared was a terror with a sword, and more suited to open combat than most of the family, making him perfect for a bodyguard. It had nothing to do, she told herself, with the fact that he was her best friend, or that they were the only two in the sanctuary who didn't openly enjoy the taking of life; the only two to whom it was just a job.

Ria was happy to have the other Imperial as her traveling companion; anyone else would have wanted to know the details of the kill, and wouldn't have understood why Ria was being so quiet. As she pulled herself out of the water and began to jog for Morthal, the inn their being their rendezvous point, she was actually looking forward to having something to eat and a warm dry place to sleep, to say nothing of having a night of drinking and merriment with her long-time friend.  
An hour rolled by under her feet. She moved quickly, alternating between running and walking, occasionally taking time to skirt the more dangerous of the swamp animals. The sky was just starting to brighten with pre-dawn light when Morthal finally came into view.

She'd just looped around from the woods onto the main road, drawing nearer to the small bridge, when she spotted the telltale armor of the Penitus Oculatus.

They were standing on the bridge, five in total; one, his armor polished to the point of gleaming and his helmet absent, watched calmly while two of the others slammed a sixth man- dressed in light armor and his face hooded- down onto the bridge railing, hauling him back up roughly and forcing him to his knees in front of their captain. Ria stopped, curious about the prisoner the Oculatus seemed to have taken but more concerned about her own hide. She slunk back into the trees on the side of the road, then, safe, tried to hear what they were saying.

Whatever that sixth man said wasn't what the Imperials wanted to hear, because one of the normally adorned Oculatus agents kicked him viciously in the ribs. Ria crept closer.  
The one Ria assumed to be the captain drew his sword, resting it threateningly against the chest of the subdued figure. A word from this same man and one of the other agents yanked the hood down, exposing their prisoner's face; the red dawn caught the angles of his cheekbones and jaw and threw shadows on his face. Ria's breath caught in her throat.

_Jared. _

"One last chance, assassin." The captain said. Ria was already moving, slipping through the forest like she was one with it, nothing more than a shadow. Jared bared his teeth in a savage snarl.

"Go to hell." she heard him snap. The captain - she was close enough now to recognize him as Maro, the pain in the ass who'd been harassing them for the last few weeks - drew his sword back, ready to stab. Ria put on speed, crashing through the trees, no longer thinking of herself.

But she was too far away. The sword came back and was thrust forward again, Jared's armor offering next to no resistance. She crashed onto the road, stumbling for an open path to her friend. All heads turned in her direction. Jared's eyes locked with hers, clouded with pain. Maro smiled, twisted the blade, and yanked it free with a spray of blood; Jared pitched forward, landing hard against the cobblestone, his head still turned so that he stared at her, the life draining from his eyes.

Maro had turned, twirling his sword in a warm-up, saying something taunting. Ria didn't hear him. Her world narrowed to one image, one person. In her mind she saw him clearly, regally handsome features and dark eyes, at her side as they ran the forest, jumping from tree to tree and log to log, feet never touching the ground as they laughed at their youth and strength and agility; at her side as they huddled in the cold, stained with blood and tears and ashes as their worlds burned in front of them; at her side as they hunted the cause of it, no thought of survival or future, seeking only the person who had taken almost everything from them; at her side as a man with sharp eyes and a sharp smile offered them a life they took because they were good at one thing and one thing only.

Eyes that had always comforted were losing their fire to the look of distant ice. A life that had committed no sin other than surviving was flowing from his chest, soaking into the stones, staining them red. Jared was a rock, a constant, there in every uncertainty, there in every moment of triumph and joy.  
And now his lifeless eyes stared into nothingness.

The Oculatus charged down the stone path, not realizing until it was too late that they were running to their deaths.

Ria wasn't sure when she drew her bow. She wasn't even aware of having moved until she'd stuck two arrows into one Oculatus agent and broken the recurve across the head of another. The next thing she knew she was ripping into them, slashing, dodging, tearing them open with a pair of daggers. When there was no one left standing she staggered to her fallen brother, soaked in blood, tears in her eyes. She knelt by his side, still not feeling it, still not comprehending it in full.

She knew, dimly, that she should run. But she couldn't, couldn't leave him here, on a road in a crappy hold, lying next to the monsters who ended him. She hadn't moved in minutes by the time Commander Maro dragged himself to his feet, pressing his hand into the stab wound in his stomach and staggering towards the assassin. She still hadn't moved when he brought the hilt of his sword down on her head.

* * *

Rai woke in a cell, her armor replaced by roughspun clothes. She stood, looking around for a moment, recognizing the Solitude prisons from past experience.

She should've cared about her situation, should've tried to find a way out, but she didn't. Instead she curled up in the corner for what remained of the day. She cried, she raged, she cursed the gods, and then she slept.

In her dreams he was alive, and they smiled and laughed and reflected on days long past. She leaned forward to lay a hand on his shoulder, to assure herself of his presence, and he turned to mist and slipped through her fingers. When she woke her chest was painfully, unbearably empty.

But the cell across from her was not.


	2. Chapter 2 - Seeking Vengeance

**Chapter 2: Seeking Vengeance**

In Riften, it rained.

Such weather came with the season. Riften was too far south to feel the biting snow that occupied most of Skyrim, but it was not so far north that it was not prone to the thundering storms that rolled over Cyrodiil's Jerall Mountains. And so, it rained.

The rain, it seemed, reflected Tristan Dorrien's own mood. It was as if the Divines knew what he had planned, and they saw it fitting to give him weather that would add to the atmosphere of said plan. It mattered not. The plan was in motion now, and backing out was out of the question.

Tristan waited and watched the activity of Mistveil Keep. In this weather, the streets were quiet. Fitting, as everyone retreated into their homes to escape the pelting rain, except for some of the Argonians that tended to wander the docks. Occasionally the odd passer-by would rush from door to door, holding a plate or a cloak above their head to stay dry. Tristan didn't care about that. He waited patiently, letting the rain wash over him, letting it drench him.

Mistveil Keep was the seat of power in this corner of Skyrim. Whoever sat in that keep had full right to control what happened in this province. And that person was the reason Tristan was here.

He pictured her – Maven Black-Briar – sitting on that throne, staring down on all those who would come to her, waiting smugly as she was treated like the royalty she wanted to be. Maven Black-Briar – the reason for his life's ruin – sitting in a seat of power. Everyone knew of her corruption, yet no one dared challenge her. Even when the Stormcloaks had retaken Skyrim, the Empire-supporting Maven had somehow won a seat of power when former Jarl Laila Law-Giver had mysteriously vanished. The thought of Maven's betrayal of not just his family, but of this city too, made Tristan's blood boil.

Tonight it ended.

Tristan shivered despite himself. He looked down at the clothes on his body and almost scowled. Just an hour ago a raggedy man had entered the Bee and the Barb. His clothes were worn and torn, and Tristan saw an opportunity. The man was happy to trade his travel-weary outfit for Tristan's fine garments, and he even insisted on buying Tristan a bottle of Black-Briar Mead as a thank you (an offer that was politely refused).

Tristan consoled himself. These clothes would make his performance easier. He looked back towards Mistveil Keep. It was quiet, as most of the guards were drinking and gambling in the barracks. When Maven was Jarl, no one dared step out of line. Guards became obsolete, but Maven still employed them. And she gave them a lot more leverage on how hostile they could be towards, well, anyone. Just another sign of corruption.

It was time.

Tristan scooped up a handful of mud and coated himself in it. His clothes, his skin, his hair; nowhere was left untouched. He put his right hand on his left arm and forced the fire to manifest itself. The flames hissed and fizzled in the rain, but they still burned. Tristan winced as the skin of his arm charred. He then scorched parts of his outfit, too. Fire was the extent of his destructive capability, but it would do. Tristan took a deep breath, and half-ran, half-stumbled towards Mistveil Keep.

"Help!" He cried as he scrambled up the steps leading to the main door. "You must help me!"

Tristan couldn't imagine what he looked like to the guards. A demon? Maybe. A helpless victim? Probably. A madman? Definitely.

He scrambled towards a guard and clasped his uniform.

"Please," Tristan said, his voice wavering. "Please help."

The guard pushed Tristan away. "What is the matter with you, man?" He said fiercely.

"You need to help me. They're coming," Tristan pleaded.

The guard looked to his companion, who shrugged.

"We've no time for your drunken games, Breton," the guard warned. "Leave now before I escort you down to the prisons."

Tristan's eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly. He shook his head. "No, no you don't get it. This is important. This cannot wait." His voice rose to a shout. "You don't understand! They're coming!" He raced towards the door, both guards intercepting him. He thrashed about, trying to break free. "They're coming! They will not stop until they have found me! They will burn everyone in this city if they have too! Please! You are all in danger!"

"Stop it!" The second guard shouted. "I don't want to kill you, but I will."

Tristan continued to shout and scream and the guards continued to wrestle. He wondered what he looked like now. A demon? Oh yes.

The doors opened to reveal a Bosmeri woman in blue robes.

"Jarl Maven wishes to know what's going on." She said flatly.

Tristan fell to his knees and looked to the ground. He crawled to the Bosmeri woman and looked up at her.

"Please," he said manically. "Please, I am here to warn y–"

One of the guards boots connected with Tristan's ribs and he collapsed to the side, gasping for breath.

"You've no right to talk to the wizard," the guard growled.

"Well?" The woman demanded.

"He's convinced something is coming, Wylandriah," the guard said, looking down on Tristan, who was still gasping for air. "Seems he's here to warn us. But look at him. He's nothing but a drunken fool."

"Skooma, probably," his companion chipped in.

The first guard nodded. "Aye, makes sense if it were Skooma. Maybe even one of Talen-Jei's unnatural concoctions."

"He calls himself a drink-maker," the second guard snorted. "If he were, then I'm a dragon."

The wizard rolled her eyes. "Well, what do you suggest we do with him then?"

"I suggest we dump him in the lake and let him drown," the first guard shrugged. "If he's a drunkard then he'll only be causing trouble. Best we end him before he does."

"And if he's _not _a drunkard?" The wizard said.

The guard shrugged again. "Whatever he's trying to warn us about, I'm sure we can handle it."

Tristan shook his head. "No," he rasped. "You cannot."

"Quiet, filth," the second guard barked.

The Bosmeri woman eyed Tristan quizzically. It took all of his willpower to not look away.  
"Bring him in," she said at last.

Even though a helmet covered his face, Tristan almost felt both of the guards rolling their eyes.

"Up you get," the first guard said, clasping Tristan by the underarm and forcing him to his feet.

"You best be respectful around the Jarl," the second guard warned. "Maven don't take kindly to liars."

Tristan nodded furiously as he made his way into the Keep. Once he was in, he suppressed a grin. In his humblest opinion, that was a brilliant performance.

_The show isn't over yet, _he thought.

Tristan followed Wylandriah into the Keep, with the two guards flanking him on either side.

The inside of Mistveil Keep was, like the outside, made of stone. The stone blocks that made up the walls were over two metres thick, making a siege on the Keep impractical. The only way into the Keep was through the front doors, which had purposefully been narrowed and divided so that instead of a torrent of enemies, attackers would have to enter in two streams that were more manageable for the City Guard (a design of Maven's). Torches lit the keep, throwing the room in an orange glow. The amount of torches lining the walls, as well as the fire pit in the centre of the main hall, made it so no part of the room was in shadow (another of Maven's designs). If anyone in Riften was paranoid, that person was Jarl Maven Black-Briar. But then, if anyone in this city had enemies, that person was Maven as well.

_Including me, _Tristan thought.

At long last, Tristan caught sight of her. Maven Black-Briar, sitting all high-and-mighty on a throne wrongly earned. He attempted to hide a scowl.

As Maven laid eyes on Tristan he dropped his. However slim the chance that he would be recognised was, he didn't want to risk it.

He felt rather than saw Maven's look of disgust.

"Wylandriah," she said, revulsion thick in her voice. "What _is _this? It's filthy."

"He's a traveller, my Jarl," Wylandriah said, giving a polite bow. "He claims to be here to warn us of something."

Maven scoffed. "I'm sure that whatever it is, the City Guard can handle it."

"That's what _I _said," one of the guards behind Tristan said quietly. His companion was quick to give him a kick in the shins.

"Then what shall we do with him, my Jarl?" Wylandriah asked.

"Kill him," Maven said without hesitation. "I don't need this filth polluting my city."

Tristan's eyes widened as he saw his window of opportunity closing. Behind him, he heard the sound of steel on leather – a sword being drawn.

Tristan hated what he did next.

He squealed and dropped to his knees. He shuffled closer to Maven, speaking quickly and maniacally. He _grovelled. _

"No, no, please you don't understand. They're too strong and they're coming. They're _coming. _They seek to raze Riften by attacking the leader. That's you, my Jarl. _Please, _I came to warn you of this crisis. They're coming. They're coming…" Tristan broke down into a fit of sobbing as he finished his speech.

The footfalls of the guard behind him didn't ease up.

"My Jarl?" The guard asked, checking to see whether it was safe to deliver the killing blow.

"Hold, soldier," Maven said, raising a hand. She crouched down to where Tristan was.

Hesitantly, he looked up and met her gaze. Recognition took place in those eyes, but the Jarl was quick to shake it off.

"You have my attention, peasant," she said quietly. "Speak. Who's coming?"

Tristan shifted his feet to a more desirable position. His hands dropped to his sides and he straightened his back, taking a stronger stance. He let his helpless and scared façade fall away, revealing a man of cruelty and malice, who wanted nothing but vengeance on this woman, this demon from the depths of Oblivion.

Tristan looked Maven in the eye, and she saw that something had changed, and Tristan saw that it unsettled her.

"Me," he whispered.

His fingers plucked at the threads of reality and the air around his right hand shimmered. Tristan cried out as he swung the Bound Sword at Maven Black-Briar.

She leapt back hurriedly, all dignity and cold confidence evaporating. She landed on her ass on the stones, screeching like a banshee, "Guards! Guards!"

Tristan cursed at the screaming yet very much alive Maven on the stones and turned to meet the guards that were rushing into the main hall to assist their Jarl.

Swords were drawn and the guards formed a semi-circle around Tristan.

Now it should be said, Tristan wasn't the greatest sword-fighter, however he was an excellent strategist (in spite of the last ten seconds). When you know the basics of armed combat, and you have a repertoire of knowledge and magic at your command, a flock of guards didn't look _as _threatening as it did to most others.

Tristan quickly analysed the situation. About ten guards stood between him and the exit, and he knew if he turned his back ten steel swords would find their way into his flesh before he could deliver a killing blow to Maven.

Tristan took a deep breath.

"Well what are you waiting for?" Maven screeched. "Kill him!"

Only nine guards advanced, as a Bound Dagger had buried itself to the hilt in the neck of the tenth.

_Lucky throw, _Tristan thought as the dagger faded back into Oblivion, releasing the guards blood onto the floor.

Two guards spearheaded the oncoming force. Tristan ran at them and fell to the floor, sliding between the guards before they knew what was happening. He swapped his sword for two Bound Daggers that he used to slash the knees of the two guards at the back of the fray. The guards cries were mixed with the sounds of tearing ligaments as they both fell to the ground, cradling the legs that would no longer hold them up.

Tristan was on his feet again. Sweat trickled from his brow as he sheathed the daggers and summoned the Bound Sword once again, using up some of the last fragments of his magicka.

He reached behind him and took a silver plate from the table. He briefly tested the weight before tossing it like a discus at an oncoming guard.

The plate crashed into the guards helmet and rattled it. The guard cursed and feel over. He tore his helmet from his head and cried out in pain, putting his hands to his ears.

Two more guards advanced on ˇTristan. He blocked a blow from the first guard and dodged to the left of a blow from the second. He lashed out with his sword and opened a gash on the first guards arm and ducked under the neck-height swing of the second. Too late did the guard realise he'd missed his target, and his swing kept going, severing the head of his companion.

Tristan took advantage of the mans surprise and guilt, and thrust the Bound Sword into his stomach. He twisted the blade and brought it up before kicking the body off of the ethereal blade. The corpse fell in a dance of blood and intestines as his entrails spilled out across the stone floor.

Tristan eyed the remaining guards before he leapt onto the table behind him. He readied his strength and vaulted from the table.

He soared over the heads of three guards before he began his descent onto the fourth. He readied his sword and waited before his blade felt flesh.

Then suddenly Tristan was falling sideways. He didn't understand what was happening until he heard the sound of fractured stone and felt the cold of something inside his stomach.

A look of confusion painted itself on Tristan's face, and the Bound Sword shimmered and vanished. He looked down and saw the Icy Spear protruding from his gut. Blood mingled with frost as he bled onto the ice and cloth that he wore. His eyes went further and he noticed that he had been nailed into the wall like some kind of grotesque artwork. His feet dangled helplessly as the blood dripped from his body like crimson rain, forming a puddle of red failure on the floor some feet below.

His eyes returned to this Icy Spear, and he followed the frosty trail that still hung in the air. His eyes landed on Wylandriah, whose hands were still splayed from having shot the spike.

The Icy Spear crumbled into fine snow and Tristan dropped to the floor. He landed on his feet and jarred both of his ankles and knees. A fist-sized hole was visible in Tristan's stomach.

Amazingly enough, Tristan felt no pain, he just felt… cold…

He collapsed onto the stone floor when the blood started pouring from his wound.

Half-consciously he felt firm hands roll him onto his back, and the face of Jarl Maven Black-Briar loomed into his vision.

"I know you," she said, though her voice sounded far, far away. "I knew I knew you. To believe the spawn of that wench and her usurper husband had survived the killing. I'll need to have a chat with the Dark Brotherhood soon. I never realised they had a soft spot for _children._"

Her mocking laughter rang high-pitched in Tristan's mind. He felt his body shutting down. He felt his lifeblood gushing from the hole in his body.

Maven was talking again. Tristan tried to focus.

"Unfortunately for you, _I _don't. I don't reserve a soft spot for anyone. Man or woman, elder or child."

_What else would you expect from a heart colder than the ice of this province?_

"I will make sure you suffer a long time for what you've tried here."

_I probably don't have that long to go._

"Not only did you kill five of my best guards…"

_Six._

"…but you made an attempt on my life, as well. I should congratulate you, really."

_Thanks._

"None of my enemies have come nearly as close as you have. That masquerade was something… new."

_Just something I came up with._

"I'm almost sad that you don't have anything to say. I'm _that _tempted to let you die quickly. Here, now. But no… What message would I be sending if I just let my enemies _die_? No. You will suffer. You will suffer for a long, _long _time."

Tristan gurgled as the blood found his throat. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words never came out. He was consumed by darkness.

* * *

Tristan's eyes fluttered open.

His vision was hazy, and he felt like he'd been out last night and had drank _way _too much.

He vaguely recalled his last memories.

Riften.

Maven.

Battle.

Death…

He remembered dying…

His eyes focused on the roof above him. It was damp stone, with moss and algae growing like a cobweb along the cracks that plastered it. Out of the corner of his eyes he spied metal bars.

"If this is hell," Tristan croaked, "it looks an awful lot like prison."

Someone chuckled outside the bars.

Tristan turned his slowly so that he was looking at the guard who was leaning against the iron.

"You're not in hell, Breton," the guard said in a familiar Nordic voice. "You're in prison. Solitude prison."

_Solitude?_

"I've been dead for ten days?" Tristan asked.

"Twelve," the guard said flatly. "It took a few days to heal you up."

Tristan lifted his shirt and saw the pale, scarred tissue on his stomach. His whole gut would've had to be reconstructed completely. The amount of magic it must have taken to heal him…

"Why would Maven keep me alive?" Tristan asked.

The guard shrugged. "I told her not to bother, but she insisted. She's going to torture you Breton. For a long time, too. The next ten years of your life will be filled with pain, before she'll give you the sweet release that is death."

Tristan remained silent.

The guard was very close, and he was pretty sure he could move. His fingers began dancing…

"Don't bother with magic, Breton," the guard said with exasperation. "This cell is covered in runes. You cast a spell and you'll receive three blasts of electricity. Nothing lethal, just enough to drain your magic. And cause you a great amount of pain."

Tristan inwardly cursed.

The guard turned and walked away.

"Where are you going?" Tristan called.

"All I had to do was make sure you woke up," the guard said. "You have a week before Maven will be here for your little get-together." He walked to the door of the prison and hesitated. "If we're being honest, Breton, I'm proud of what you did. Jarl Black-Briar holds power, but she holds no favours with anyone in Riften. What you did was admirable, and I'm sad it didn't work."

"Then why don't you let me go?"

The guard laughed. "Because I don't want to be in your boat." And with that, he was gone.

Tristan lay there for some time before he made the decision to sit up. He'd reflected on what he'd done, and he was almost glad it hadn't worked. He could only imagine what his late parents would have to say.

_What you were seeking wasn't vengeance… it was revenge…_

He had disgraced his parents by trying to murder Maven, and he had shamed his parents by doing so willingly. And now he would pay the ultimate price: ten years of torture, and then, death.

He looked up to the roof and beyond, into the heavens where the Divines resided, and even beyond that, into Aetherius, and the paradise that he was sure his parents resided.

"I'm sorry…"

Tristan winced in pain as he lifted his body into a sitting position. He leaned against the stone wall, panting with effort, sweat already forming on his brow. He looked down at his beacon of a scar and cursed. As if the next ten years had to be any more difficult.

His eyes then wandered the walls. It wasn't long before he discovered the runes in his cell. He was almost surprised the Nords had gone to the lengths of magic, especially Stormcloaks. A single word or gesture would deactivate the runes. Unfortunately, Tristan wasn't well versed in the School of Destruction.

His gaze extended to the rest of the prison. His eyes drifted slowly around, taking in details.

It seemed everyone in Solitude had been on their best behaviour, as Tristan's cell was the only cell that was occupied. Then someone in the cell across from him shuffled slightly, and his eyes darted to them.

In the cell across from him sat a woman donned in roughspun clothes. He found her eyes, and noticed the sheer… emptiness…

Tristan had never met this woman (and he was sure they would never meet again outside of the prison), but he reached out to her and her feeling of nothingness. Some part of him wanted to help her, but that part of him was quickly subdued.

She noticed his looking and her eyes met his. They sat there, staring, for a time Tristan couldn't begin to measure.

Something in her gaze was cold and powerful, and Tristan felt himself buckling under her stare. He averted his eyes, seemingly taking a sudden interest in the stonework of the floor.

He looked at the floor and he thought.

He would live here.

He would feel pain here.

And he would die here.

His life was written for him, and it was a life unwanted, but deserved.

Little did he know that fate had other plans.


	3. Chapter 3 - Home, Sweet Home

**Chapter 3: Home, Sweet Home**

The was a Breton in the cell across from her.

There was also a guard leaning on the bars of said cell.

The guard she was sure hadn't been there before; the other prisoner she couldn't be sure of. The lighting was dim, and if he hadn't moved or made any sounds, she wouldn't have noticed his presence, not in the state she'd been in.

Grief rolled in her as she remembered what had put her in that state; yes, that feeling there would have been enough to distract her from a prone, unmoving figure in the shadows.

"If this is hell," the Breton said, his voice hoarse and rough, "It looks alot like prison."

The guard chuckled, and Ria's lips twitched upward for the barest fraction of a second.

"You're not in hell, Breton. You're in prison. Solitude prison."

Ria watched his face closely, more out of habit than interest. Confusion, and perhaps shock, flickered across it.

"I've been dead for ten days?"

"Twelve. It took a few days to heal you up."

She was only curious as to what had been healed for a few seconds; the Breton yanked his shirt up and stared down at his stomach. There was no question about it this time; he was shocked. Ria squinted and focused, and was able to make out a scar there. She cast her mind back to all the times she or a Family member had been injured, and how the injuries had looked when they'd healed. Her first guess of the cause was a sword, but she quickly changed that theory; a sword stab would be either vertical or horizontal (or somewhere in between), and no more than two inches across, tops. His scar was slightly bigger than her fist, and roughly the same shape.

_If it was a sword, someone twisted it,_ she thought vaguely.

"Why would Maven keep me alive?"

_So she can kill you slowly_, Ria knew the instant she heard the name. She'd been to Riften once or twice, and every now and then the Brotherhood would get contracts from Maven Black-Briar. Ria herself didn't like the woman; something about the woman reminded her of Motierre, or perhaps Motierre reminded her of Maven, but either way Rai trusted neither of them very much. The only things one could count on those two doing were what all snakes do: bite.

"I told her not to bother, but she insisted." is the guard's response. "She's going to torture you Breton. For a long time, too. The next ten years of your life will be filled with pain, before she'll give you the sweet release that is death."

_She should give the mighty Listener acouple lessons,_ Ria thought sarcastically; Lucian had the habit of getting overexcited and accidently killing his source of entertainment. It usually wasn't a problem, but every now and then they got someone who they needed information out of, and dead men don't talk.

After a second the guard added, with an annoyed countenance, "Don't bother with magic, Breton. This cell is covered in runes. You cast a spell and you'll receive three blasts of electricity. Nothing lethal, just enough to drain your magic. And cause you a great amount of pain."

Ria was slightly amused by how unhappy the statement made her dungeon-mate.

The Nordic guard pushed off the bars and walked for the door, obviously done with the conversation; she didn't try to ask him what her own fate would be. Assuming they knew only that she'd taken out several Oculatus agents and attacked Maro, there were two possibilities- execution or life in prison- and she could bring herself to care about neither.

"Where are you going?" the Breton shouted after him. The guard stopped but didn't turn.

"All I had to do was make sure you woke up. You have a week before Maven will be here for your little get-together." He continued to the door, but hesitated there, indecisive.

"If we're being honest, Breton, I'm proud of what you did. Jarl Black-Briar holds power, but she holds no favours with anyone in Riften. What you did was admirable, and I'm sad it didn't work."

Ria herself thought the Breton stupid; whatever he'd done to Blackbriar- and she had an educated guess by now just what it was he'd did- would have been suicide from the get-go.

_Unless that was his goal, in which case he's doing remarkably well for himself._

"Then why don't you let me go?"

Ria could have laughed; the guard certainly did. Why would someone stick their neck out for a stranger, incur Maven's wrath, knowing the fate that awaited them if they did?

"Because I don't want to be in your boat."

With that, the guard made his exit.

That left Ria with only one point of interest in the place: the Breton. For a while, he lay where he was, staring at the ceiling. She took the time to observe him, and she recognized a look, a glint in his eyes.

_What did Black-Briar do to you to cause that much hate?_ She wondered. She knew that look; she'd seen it in Jared's eyes, seen it in the eyes of her reflection. Her earlier guess of what the Breton had done was looking more and more likely, and though she doubted his sanity for it, she understood it. She and Jared had done the exact same thing, the only difference being they'd succeeded.

"I'm sorry," the Breton said quietly to the ceiling; his voice and his face were filled with something close to guilt. He lifted himself up with great effort, pain written over his features at the movement, and sat against the cell wall, glaring at his stomach and cursing. Then he began to look around at the faint runes painted onto his new home.  
She was reminded of Jared for a second, not because the two men looked or moved similarly, but simply because of the action. If the roles had been reversed, Jared wouldn't be acting like a sniveling, instable wreck like she was; he would have done what the Breton was doing.

A familiar void opened in her chest, sucking away energy, senses, well-being. For a fleeting moment Ria contemplated driving her fist into the wall just to feel something.

It took her several seconds for her to notice the Breton's stare, and she met it; she could see the sympathy in his eyes, and she should have been angered by it. But she just stared back cooly, regarding him as he was her, both familiarizing themselves with the last somewhat-friendly face they would see before they died. The moment stretched on.  
He looked away first; Ria guessed that she didn't look all that friendly after all. The thought brought a small flicker of amusement.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall, waiting. For what, she didn't know, but there was nothing else to do. She could have spoken to the Breton, but just the thought of social interaction made her tired, so she tried to sleep. Maybe, if she was lucky, she would dream of Jared again.

She didn't; she hovered somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, a place where she could only distantly perceive the world. Hours or minutes later, she was jerked awake when the guard- he could have been the same one from earlier, but it was impossible to tell with the helmet covering his face- slid a tray of food into her cell. Ria glanced at it, seeing a small piece of stale bread and a glass of murky water.

She stayed where she was, her appetite absent even before she saw the state of her dinner. _They need to either kill me or let me go. I'm done with waiting,_ She thought, wishing, for the first time, for an opportunity to escape. If she could get out of here, she could at least find something to keep her mind busy.

The guard turned, bending to repeat the action with the Breton's food, and in that moment something appeared in front of Ria's cell.

She thought of it as a something because she had never seen a creature like it. Its back was to her, and its outline was indeed humanoid, but that's where the similarities ended. It was solid black, a maze of ebony veins just barely visible under its skin; any and all hair was absent from its body, and its hide was unnaturally smooth and unblemished on the surface. There was something wrong, something unnatural about it.

It was a being straight from the depths of Oblivion.

All this she took in in the instant before the creature let out a piercing screech and flung a haymaker into the guard's head, making his helmet ring and sending him sprawling onto his side on the ground. Ria came back to her senses at the noise, and scrambled for the far corner of the small cell, wanting to be as far away from the thing as possible.  
The creature was on the guard instantly, wrapping its fingers around the Nord's neck and squeezing hard enough to make his eyes bulge. Ria was sure that'd be the end of it, but the guard drove his knee up into the thing's body with enough force to lift it slightly from the ground, making it loosen its grip. That was all he needed to throw the beast off him and scramble to his feet.

The Nord drew his sword, his back pressed to the bars of the Breton's cell as the creature leapt to its feet, crouched as though poised to leap. There wasn't much space between Ria's cell and those opposite of her, perhaps ten feet, and she could tell that this was going to be a close-quarter fight. Against that creature, she wondered how long the guard could last.

The demon howled and launched itself at the guard, only to collide with iron bars as the man sidestepped, slashing his sword. It caught the thing on the shoulder, but didn't stop it from twisting and throwing its body weight into the Nord, sending him crashing back into the bars of Ria's cell.  
It was the first time the creature was facing her, and in the split second before it lunged for the guard, she saw that its face was lacking a nose or lips, and that its eyes held no irises or pupils; they were simply an oval-shaped expanse of blood-red.

Then the creature was surging forward, negating the distance between it and its enemy with blinding speed and throwing its hips into a blow to the head. Somehow, impossibly, the guard ducked under the strike, plunging his sword forward and up into its chest.  
The creature's body went limp, slouching forward onto the guard and making him stumble back into the cell bars. For a minute, the demon and the Nord stare at each other in disbelief.

Then the things drove its fist into the guard's throat with inhuman force. The Nord gasped and choked, his windpipe likely broken, his face panicking. Ria saw a moment of clarity cross what she could see of his features, and he twisted his blade viciously.

The demon exploded.

One second it there, whole, its mouth opening in a silent moan of pain, and the next its skin opened up and what looked like black ash burst out with incredible force, coating everything in a five foot radius. The guard slumped to the floor, dead.

An eerie silence stretched out in which nothing seemed to be brave enough to move. After acouple seconds, when nothing else happening, Ria crept towards the front of her cell, not quite believing what her eyes told her.

All around, whatever that strange ash had touched was considerably worse for the wear. Cracks raced across the floor where the demon had stood, and the places where the ash had contacted the bars of the cell had rusted instantly.

Her heart beat a little faster, and she lashed out with a powerful kick where grey iron had turned red. The weakened section of the bar snapped off and skidded out towards the opposite cell with a clang of metal. Then she kicked out a second bar, dropped to the ground, and army-crawled through the gap.

She came out with the dead guard on her left, and that was when the smell hit her nose. It wasn't an altogether unfamiliar odor; in her line of work, the smell of rotting bodies was commonplace. The problem was that she'd never, in all her time as an assassin, had a body smell this bad so soon after death. When she climbed to her feet, giving her a better view of the front of the corpse, she saw why.

The entire chest, stomach, and the front of its legs had all been converted, rather heavily, in ash. In related news, there was no longer any flesh on those areas. The legs were nothing but bones pockmarked and cratered by rot; the stomach was non-existent, the flesh gone and a pool of reddish-black gunk pooled between his hollow hipbones and spilling over onto his lap. His upper torso was in nearly the same skeletal state, every rib completely showing, the only flesh still hanging on decayed to a blackish color and clinging onto where ribs met spine.

Ria noticed all this as she swept a quick eye over him, unfazed by the gore, looking for possible supplies; she would very much like a weapon incase she ran into any other guards. But his Stormcloak armor had been reduced to nothing more than scraps of blue cloth and leather, and his sword was now a length of rusted metal that was a foot shorter than the blade out to be.

"Bother and befuddle," Ria growled, quoting the Keeper in her annoyance; having spent years living with him meant that his phrases had started to slip into her vocabulary.  
The one thing she did see still intact was a ring of only-slightly-rusted keys on the ground next to the corpse's hip. She hadn't seen or heard them before, so she assumed a leather pouch or pocket had protected them from the worst of that strange dust.

She picked them up, looking them over; if her past experience in this place was anything to go by, they were to unlock the cells and not the chest of confiscated possessions. No, that key was bigger than these ones. She took them anyway, figuring that she could get acouple septims if she pawned them to the right people.

Ria rose and turned on her heels, her mind now on the door and the path she would need to take to get out of the place. But something made her stop and look at the Breton. He might not end up being the last person she saw, but she would probably be the last he saw- well, besides Maven.

Motierre and his contract had gotten her into this mess, had brung Maro's hatred onto the Family and had resulted in Jared's death. Ria hated him, and she hated Maven for how similar they were.

The Breton was gaping at the decimated body, and it was only the clang of the keys finding their way onto the floor of his cell that made him meet her gaze.

"If you're want to kill a Black-Briar, Breton, you're going to have to catch them outside the Keep." She said. For the few minutes she thought of how she'd do it, she'd thought that the best chance of success- and survival- would be a long-ranged attack or an ambush; whenever she'd been to Riften, Mistveil Keep had been too heavily guarded to be able to get to anyone important.

She turned and walked for the door, not waiting for a thank-you and not wanting one. She didn't do it out of kindness. She didn't know why she did, honestly, but it wasn't for that.

_Now,_ she thought, _to get my stuff back._

* * *

Ria slipped in through the sanctuary door, exhausted and hungry. After getting her things and slipping over the Solitude battlements onto a pine below, she'd cut down to a an Orc stronghold to buy some food and hide from anyone following her; she was welcome there for doing a job for the chief acouple years ago.

She'd spent a day there before continuing on to Markarth, cutting through the wilderness and doubling back for hours on end to shake any tails before continuing on to Falkreath. She felt lighter than she had in days; the exercise was helping to keep her mind focused and away from her grief.

But the adrenaline was wearing off, and her mind was starting to return to places it shouldn't't. She walked deeper into the sanctuary, coming to a space occupied by acouple bookshelves and a map-covered table. She ducked into a left-hand door, emerging into Lucian's office.

He was sitting behind a desk facing the door, reading over a ledger. The Listener's race was something that Ria could never pinpoint. His face was almost Nordic, but his sharp cheekbones, dark hair, and slightly-tanned skin spoke of Breton heritage. Age was another uncertainty about this one; he could have been at once twenty-five and forty, though if he were the former that would put him at a year younger than Ria.

Lucian looked up as Ria entered, a friendly smile playing over his face. It vanished the instant he saw the expression on hers.

"What happened? Did everything go alright?"

"The Emperor's dead, if that's what you're asking." She said dryly.

The Listener sat up alittle straighter, trying to see around her; Ria though that he finally seemed to be getting the idea that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

"Where's Jared?"

"Dead." Ria said flatly. Lucian's eyes went wide; he was on his feet instantly.

"What!? How? Who?"

"Maro got ahold of him." Ria's eyes darkened as the memory flashed across her mind. "I couldn't get to him in time."

Lucian swallowed hard, seeming to register the shock; the Family was a family to him, and the deaths of his Siblings had always hit him hard. In Ria's mind, it was part of what made him a good leader. "And Maro?"

"Stabbed in the gut, but alive."

The Listener took a deep breath. "What of Motierre? Did you get the payment?"

Anger flashed through Ria's eyes, the kind of anger that made an assassin dangerous. "My apologies, but the payment seemed like a second priority to my survival."

"You're an assassin, you can survive the trek across Skyrim." Lucian shot back, annoyed with his subordinate's tone.

"It's not the journey that's gonna kill me, it's the goddamn demons."

Lucian perked up at that, and a sudden look of keen, predatory interest flashed through his eyes; Ria half expected one of those sharp smiles to make its appearance. But he covered the look up so quickly that she wondered if she'd imagined it.

"What do you mean, demon?"

"Do I look like an Oblivion expert? I don't know what the damn thing was, and I'm not volunteering to go find out."

"Tone, Ria." Lucian warned.

"What about it?"

Ria could tell she was starting to grind on his nerves, but the Listener was holding his temper down. Sociopath though he may be at times, he cared for the Family, and he was something of a friend to Ria; meaning that he wasn't going to snap too viciously at her so soon after Jared's death.

"Nevermind. Go get some rest, I'll send someone up to Whiterun for Motierre."

"No!" Ria said instantly. Lucian shot her a questioning look, and she quickly composed herself. "No, I want the work. Free time isn't exactly my friend at the moment."

Lucian studied her for a moment, evaluating. "Very well." he said, pulling a piece of paper from under the ledger. "If you're going to Whiterun, we just got a contract from Black-Briar this morning. All the details are there. If you're feeling up to it, I'd like you to take care of it."

Ria took the note, her lipping curling into a snarl. She liked neither Motierre nor Maven; it was a good thing she was going to kill one of them very soon. It might not bring happiness, but it would keep her from ever coming into contact with Motierre again, and perhaps the adrenaline rush of fleeing the guards would keep her mind off certain things.

"I'll just grab acouple things and head out, then." She said, tucking the note into a pocket. Lucian nodded his approval and dismissal, returning to his record-keeping. She turned to go, but stopped in the doorway, adding, "If it's possible, I want Jared's body. And a shot at Maro."

The Listener nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

Ria plunged into the Sanctuary, heading straight to the bedrooms. Several of her Siblings greeted her or tried to start conversations, but she ignored them. She didn't want to talk; let Lucian announce Jared's death while she was away. She didn't want to acknowledge that it'd happened, let alone talk about it.

She stopped at the doorway of the men's rooms, glancing to Jared's bed and feeling her eyes start to sting with tears. She blinked them away as she continued to her the women's quarters, filling a knapsack with food, acouple simple iron daggers to use as throwing knives, and her personal ledger.

The moon was starting to rise as she climbed into a cart in Falkreath, tipping the driver extra to travel at this time of night. If they made good time, dawn would find her in Whiterun.


	4. Chapter 4 - Jailbreak

**Chapter 4: Jailbreak**

When the creature appeared, the only thing that registered with Tristan was shock, and perhaps even fear. It had simply _appeared._

Tristan had never seen anything of the like. Even he knew Daedra had to enter through Oblivion Gates, or when they were summoned by a conjurer. Both methods required a great deal of light, noise, and chaos. The light and noise had been absent here, but the chaos had definitely been present.

Tristan vaguely recalled the battle between the guard and the creature – he only watched it through half-seeing eyes, his brain clouded with surprise and shock – and how the guard had ended the creature with a luck thrust of a blade up into where the creatures' chest would have been.

The battle had been won.

But then came the explosion. It sounded like an implosion, the air rushing into where the creature was just a moment before, and an ash-like substance covered a small area.

The woman across from Tristan had reacted first. She was quick to inspect the carnage, and then kick the bars of her cell.

To Tristan's surprise, the bars snapped with a metallic ring and fell away. He watched as she slipped from her cell and frisked the now dead guard.

He saw her wrinkle her nose, and Tristan soon gathered why. The smell of rotting flesh had filled the prison, and Tristan gagged, feeling the bile rise in his throat.

Something metal clanged on the floor of his cell, and Tristan turned to meet the eyes of the woman.

"If you want to kill a Black-Briar, Breton, you're going to have to catch them outside the Keep," she said with a hint of amusement mingled with the faintest tones of cynicism.

Tristan opened his mouth to make a quip, but she had already turned and exited the prison quickly, leaving him where he was with the dead guard.

Tristan recalled all of this now as he jangled the keys around in the lock. The old key was large and mildly rusted, making it difficult to turn the lock on his cell. At least he thought he found purchase as the key began to twist. He heard as the rusted springs in the tumblers began to click, then with a sudden jolt the rusted key snapped.

Tristan fell over at the suddenness of this event. He sent a flurry of wild and creative curses into the air before going to his bed and sitting down.

He sat, the thoughts in his racing around to no end. His eyes drifted over the runes in his cell, and an idea occurred to him.

Tristan assessed the position of the runes and sighed, shrugging with indecision as he shuffled into a different position. His fingers flexed as sparks of magic began dancing under his skin. He noticed the runes begin to glow blue.

Before he could back out, he cast the Ward, feeling with acute sense the fabrics of reality bend as the mystical shield pulsed into existence.

The runes flashed and Tristan felt the intense heat as the lightning bolts shot from the walls. They collided with his position in the room, but all of them bounced off of the Ward and continued to the bars of his cell.

The magical lightning incinerated the bars, leaving a puddle of smoking metal on the floor.

Tristan let the Ward fall and the lightning stopped.

He stood up and swayed precariously. His hand shot out to clutch the wall of his cell so to prevent him from falling over. With his injury, even the simplest thing like casting a Ward was draining him.

After he stopped seeing black spots, Tristan exited the cell quickly, not stopping to examine the dead guard like his former sister-in-prison. He rushed to the door that led to the outside of the prison and crouched, listening.

Upon hearing no one on the other side, he opened it and crept through.

It was to Tristan's luck that the prison was abandoned at this time. Perhaps the Stormcloaks had an event to celebrate on this night. Tristan smirked.

_Of course they do, _he thought. _It's called the Winking Skeever…_

Tristan opened the door that separated him from the open world and stepped through. He took a deep breath, savouring the taste of Solitude air in place of the dank mustiness that made up the air in the prison.

He risked a few more seconds before resuming his crouch and sneaking through Solitude city.

As it happened, sneaking seemed unnecessary. The night was old, and the only sounds were to roaring songs of drunken Stormcloaks that came from the Winking Skeever.

Tristan slipped out of the city without an event. The lookout on the gate was (again, to Tristan's luck) asleep.

Tristan continued on his way, down to the farm below the city. There, he found the stables.

Regretting what he was about to do, Tristan led a horse from the stable. The horse didn't seem to mind too much. It trotted out with minimal noise. With his finger, Trstan wrote _I O U _in the dirt.

He mounted the horse and rode it slowly down to the main road, before he struck the reigns, spurring the horse on at a gallop. He didn't rest until he reached Whiterun.

* * *

When Tristan reached Whiterun he was tired and starved, and the horse he had stolen looked worse for wear. He was covered in the blood of a pack of wolves he had encountered that morning. He had managed to repair his injuries he'd sustained (and those of his steed) with some Restoration magic, but all that had done was stop the bleeding. Many scars were still seen on his arms and legs, and as he rode he felt his movements in his joints begin to stiffen, and then ache.

The ride from Solitude to Whiterun had taken two and a half days without stopping.

As Tristan rode along the road and saw Dragonsreach scraping the clouds regally, he slowed the horse down to a canter.

He reached the outskirts of Whiterun and dismounted. He walked the horse along the road, leading it to the stables. He hammered his fist on the door.

"What is it?" A burly Nord said upon answering.

"You want to buy a horse?" Tristan asked wearily.

The Nords' eyebrows arched. Tristan sensed he was bout to say no.

"She's a fine steed," Tristan said with more conviction. "Friendly with everyone, and in good condition, if not a bit tired. I'll give you a good price. Only three hundred gold."

The Nord didn't look prepared to inspect the steed, but the low price had caught his attention.

"Two hundred," the Nord said.

"Two seventy," Tristan countered.

"Two fifty."

"Done."

Tristan led the mare into the stables and then returned to the house, collecting his payment.

He stashed the coin in torn pockets and made his way to the gates with aching and stiff limbs.

"You look ill," one of the guards said as he sidled up. "Visit Arcadia at Arcadia's Cauldron. She'll fix you up."

Tristan just scowled as he forced the heavy wooden doors of the city open.

Unlike the filthy and limping figure who had just entered the city, Whiterun was beautiful in every sense of the word.

The streets were clean, the people were more or less friendly, the city layout was excellent, and the way the sun kissed Dragonsreach during the dawn and the dusk (as it was now) was a sight that would be worthy of an audience of the Nine.

Tristan limped up the cobblestone slope that connected most of Whiterun. He passed a tanned woman leaning against a post. She was covered in soot and dirt, and her hair was plastered to her head with a combination of soot and sweat. Regardless, her features were sharp, and her dark hair and eyes betrayed beauty.

"Are you alright, traveller?" She asked.

"Arcadia's Cauldron?" Tristan rasped.

She gestured with a nod of her head up the road.

"Medium-sized house up near the inn. You can't miss it."

Tristan waved his thanks and began limping again.

The woman was right. He couldn't miss Arcadia's Cauldron. Considering the sign outside the house that read _Arcadia's Cauldron, _one would have to be either very stupid or very drunk to miss it.

He entered the shop and the waft of several aromas assaulted his senses. The scent of mountain flowers mixed with troll fat and slaughterfish eggs would have been appealing to dogs or other hungry animals, but not humans.

Arcadia was alert immediately.

"You look ill," she said.

Tristan just nodded tiredly.

"Symptoms?"

Tristan described them.

Arcadia wasted no time coming to a diagnosis. "Rockjoint," she said. "I have something for that."

She disappeared into a side room for some moments before returning with a corked flask. A mucus-coloured liquid swished around in the glass.

"Drink this," she said in a motherly tone.

Tristan grabbed the flask and uncorked it. He didn't even have a chance to smell the liquid before he downed it.

He instantly regretted his haste.

He gagged at the horrid taste of the potion. It tasted like off-milk and raw meat mixed with stale bread and raw sugar.

Arcadia put her hand over her mouth and faked a cough. Obviously she was trying to suppress laughter.

After Tristan had finished spluttering and retching like an idiot he met Arcadia's gaze with tears in his eyes.

"How much?" He asked.

"Thirty gold pieces," Arcadia said after some hesitation.

Tristan raised an eyebrow but didn't answer. He counted out forty gold pieces for good measure and gave them, along with his thanks, to the apothecary.

She nodded her appreciation and Tristan left the shop, the stiff ache in his joints already subsiding. The sun was casting the last of its rays across the sky when Tristan exited.

The merchants were packing away their stores. Some wore looks of content happiness, obviously having had a successful day. Others wore looks of stern anger, the opposite having been their story.

_Oh well,_ Tristan thought. _There's always tomorrow._

Tristan entered the inn that was the Bannered Mare. The name of the inn reminded him of the horse he stole, and winced at the memory. Repaying that farmer was high up on his list of things to do

"Come on in," a Nord woman behind the counter said instinctively, though her tone was warm and her smile warmer. "Just stoked the fire. Sit down and I'll send someone over."

Tristan sat on a stool across from the woman, his back to the fire and ruckus of the rest of the inns frequenters.

"Or not," the woman chuckled. "What can I get you?"

"Food," Tristan said. "And ale, if you have it."

"Aye, of course," the woman said. "I'm Hulda."

"Tristan."

"Haven't seen you before, Tristan. Are you local?"

"Oh, no. I'm just up from Riften selling some wares for my contractor," Tristan lied.

"Riften, eh? That's some ways away."

Tristan shrugged. "With the Thieves Guild in the city it's sometimes hard to turn a profit. Besides, Whiterun is the centre of trade in all of Skyrim."

Hulda nodded. "Fair enough. What would you like to eat?"

"Whatever you recommend," Tristan smiled. "I'm starved."

"You look it. Did you have a run in with some bandits on your way here?"

"No. Wolves. Just this morning."

"At least you're still here."

"Indeed. I contracted some disease though. Arcadia fixed me up."

"She knows what she's doing."

"That she does."

Hulda placed a bottle of ale on the counter and Tristan removed the cork and took a deep drink.

"That's the stuff," he sighed.

Hulda just laughed.

Soon Tristan had a plate of roast potatoes with cows meat and gravy, with bread and goats cheese. He devoured the meal in what could have been seconds and was quick to order seconds, which he also practically inhaled.

As the night wore on, Tristan drank more and joined in with the social activities of the inn. People sang and laughed and fought and drank, and they did it all again. In this inn there was no evil. Just friends, drinking buddies, and joy.

It was approaching midnight when Tristan sat back down at the counter.

"Could I get a room?" He asked Hulda.

"Of course," she said.

"How much do I owe you?"

"What, with the two meals, the room and all the ale..." She did the math in her head. "A hundred gold would just about cover it."

Tristan nodded and counted and recounted one hundred and twenty gold pieces.

"There," he said, handing it over.

"This is too much," Hulda said.

"Not at all. Thank you for your hospitality."

Hulda shrugged. "Just doing my job," she smiled.

Tristan walked towards the flight of stairs that would lead him to where he would be sleeping.

Two men in fine garments sat in the corner, talking quietly over glasses of Alto Wine. Tristan still picked up on their conversation.

"Did you hear?" The first man said. "There was a jailbreak in Solitude."

"What happened?" The second man asked.

"No one knows. All they found were two empty cells, a bunch of decayed stone and iron and a dead guard."

"That's awful," the second man gasped. "Do they know who escaped?"

The first man nodded vigorously. "They do indeed. One was a would-be hero who made an attempt on the life of Maven Black-Briar, and the other was an assassin who killed the Emperor."

The second man gasped again.

_Word in this province spreads quicker than the plague,_ Tristan thought, shaking his head. Then the words clicked into place and the image of the woman in the cell across from his flashed into his mind. _An assassin? She killed the Emperor?_

The men were talking again and Tristan was quick to listen.

"What are they going to do about it?" The second man asked urgently.

The first man shook his head. "I've no idea. But I'd wager the Dark Brotherhood will be involved."

Tristan had heard enough. He marched up the stairs and slumped onto his rented bed.

He sighed and stood again, shedding his filthy clothes and wrapping them in a ball. He looked in the chest at the foot of his bed and found some discarded commoners clothes, which he donned, and after transferring the gold from his old clothes to his new, he walked out onto the balcony overlooking the floor of the inn.

"Hey!" He called.

One partygoer looked up.

"Kindling for the fire," Tristan said, tossing the filthy clothes to the man.

The man roared with laughter and tossed the clothes into the fire.

Tristan returned to the bed and collapsed onto the mattress. He lay there for some time, staring at the wooded ceiling, thinking. He felt the dull tingle of his magicka racing through his body, destroying the alcohol that remained inside.

_At least I won't get a hangover,_ Tristan thought.

He yawned and shut his eyes, reflecting on the conversation he'd heard just ten minutes before.

_Dark Brotherhood or no Dark Brotherhood,_ Tristan thought. _I'm going to sleep._

The moment he thought it, he was out.

* * *

A creak on the floorboards jolted Tristan awake.

He sat up quickly and scanned the room. His eyes fell upon the black-clad figure crouching, unmoving in the corner.

Tristan's heart rate increased, but he fought down his fear. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

"You're getting sloppy, assassin," he said. "Creaky floorboards surely shouldn't be your undoing."

The figure, knowing they'd been discovered, slowly stood at their full height and took a tender step forward.

Tristan estimated it to be really early in the morning, possibly four o'clock. The fire on the floor level still burned, but less intensely, covering a large portion of the inn in shadow. Suffice to say, everyone had left to get some sleep before the day ahead.

Tristan got out of bed and stretched, all the while keeping a careful eye on the assassin. At last he faced his killer, his magicka dancing about his fingers in case he had the chance to leap into action and counterattack.

The assassin took a small step back. Whoever they were, they seemed surprised, though they'd tried to hide it.

The assassin seemed to regain composure, and they took another step forward.

Tristan summoned the Bound Sword, the familiar cracking sound of realities being crossed filling the room.

The assassin looked down to the blade and then back to Tristan. They took another step forward, into the light, revealing their features.

Tristan was so shocked that his sword dispelled.

"You can't be serious..." He muttered.

In front of him, wearing the signature armour of all Dark Brotherhood assassins, stood his former sister-in-prison.

Her face was steely, betraying nothing, but even though her eyes were cold Tristan could still see the glint of surprise and reluctance in them.

Tristan quickly assessed the situation, but there was nothing he could do. He spread his arms.

"Well go on, then," he said, still talking confidently despite his eminent demise. "Do what you have been paid to do."

He stood there, expecting death, when the woman said something that he definitely didn't expect.

"Run," she said quietly.

"What?" Tristan was dumbstruck. He looked at her and saw her shaking.

She clenched her jaw. "Run!" She screamed at him.

Tristan didn't wait to be told again. He leapt from the bed out to the balcony, over the railing and onto the hard wooden floor below.

He heard the scrambling of the woman taking the long route down the stairs.

He collected himself and hurled himself at the door. It burst open and the chill night air hit Tristan.

He didn't stop to enjoy it, though. He ran. Up the staircase that lead to the Gildergreen, a beautiful tree that adorned Whiteruns centre. At the Gildergreen he took a left, hoping to run a wide arc around towards the city gate. He found the stairs downwards and took them three at a time, practically leaping.

He was almost at the gate now. He risked looking behind him and saw the woman hot on his heels. She was holding a dagger, and she was gaining ground.  
Tristan cursed and summoned his Bound Sword. He turned abruptly, and the conjured metal met the metal of the womans' dagger.

Their blades locked, and they stood there for some time. The woman wore an expressionless mask and Tristan snarled. She kicked out and knocked Tristan back.

Their blades collided again and again, each waging war on the other. Although Tristan was no joke with a blade, the woman seemed to be a natural born killer. She would occasionally land hits on Tristan, and those cuts would bleed. The more blood he lost, the more tired he became. Her training was far superior to his.

Their blades locked again, and Tristan thrust backwards. He used the force to leap away from the assassin.

Tristan's sword faded back into Oblivion, and his fingers instinctively grasped the threads of Restoration magic. The golden ribbons flowed up his arms, healing his cuts.  
The two stood across from each other, regarding each other coolly. Tristan panting, the assassin not so much.

"Maven sent you, didn't she?" Tristan asked.

The assassin raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

"Y'know, I thought you would've been friendly," Tristan said sarcastically, anger at Maven and his killer coating his words. "I saw you in that cell and I felt bad for you. I didn't know you, but I felt the grief and the rage coming off you." He took a deep breath. "You lost someone. I know that feeling." He stood up straight and puffed out his chest. "You may have let me go earlier, but that means nothing now. Just know that when you kill me."

The woman nodded, sensing that they would be his final words. She met his gaze and stepped forward, the dagger held firmly.

But then she stopped.

And she looked to her left.

Tristan saw her pale, and he followed her gaze.

Twenty feet away a pitch black crack had appeared silently in open air.

The crack bulged, and then slowly grew. Black tendrils whipped from it and lashed themselves to nothing, making intricate pillars of darkness. The cracks spread along the ground, decaying the stone and killing the weeds that grew between them. The crack shifted until it looked like a kind of gate, waiting to be opened in the middle of Whiterun.  
From the gate the creature emerged. It was identical to the one that had appeared in the prison, but this ones build was heavier, somehow more muscular.

A second creature stepped through, slightly smaller than the first.

A third followed.

They each looked around with blood-red eyes, intricately studying their surroundings with their gaze.

And then the three creatures all leaned their heads back and let out a screech that rang with pure malice.

Tristan was frozen to the spot, the fear he'd felt days before taking hold. But this wasn't like any fear he'd felt before. This was pure, untainted _terror_.

Like she had in their last encounter, the woman was the first to react. Suddenly Tristan's life didn't look so appealing, because she high-tailed it and ran.

Tristan watched as she deftly climbed the stone wall and vaulted over it, escaping from danger.

At this point in time, Tristan wished he could climb like that...

The creatures were pouring out of the portal by the dozens. They moved silently, their footfalls barely making a sound.

Tristan watched in horror as black blades grew from their unholy flesh, becoming but am extension of their arms. The first of them entered Warmaiden's, the blacksmiths, and the Tristan's blood curdled as he heard the slick piercing of a blade in flesh, and then two screams that he felt in his bones.

Tristan was tempted to run. Oh, he wanted to run so badly in that moment. But, like they did in that prison cell, the thought of his parents came to him.

"Dammit..." Tristan cursed. He summoned the Bound Sword in one hand and readied a Ward in the other. With all the power he could muster, he roared, "GUARDS!"

Tristan raced to the barracks and hammered on the door. Behind him, the creatures from nothingness (because they weren't from Oblivion, he was sure) poured out of the gate and were forming ranks.

"You need to get armed and come out now!" Tristan called. He hoped they could hear the urgency in his voice.

He ran again, upwards, into the city to Dragonsreach. He didn't have time to soak in the beauty of the building. Instead, he barged through the doors.

He was met with an iron sword pointed at his throat. On the end of the sword was a Dunmer woman.

"What is the meaning of this?" She demanded.

"You need to listen to me, there's no time," Tristan replied calmly but quickly. "These... creatures have appeared in the city. They will surely overrun it. Gather your guards and evacuate the townspeople. You have. To. Escape. Don't engage them. To do so would mean death."

The Dunmer woman watched him for many agonising moments before she decided he was telling the truth.

"Can you help us evacuate the city?" She asked.

Tristan nodded.

"Go." She said. "Gaurds!"

Tristan left Dragonsreach and bounded down the stairs. Outside, the chaos had spread, and it had become pandemonium.

There were easily five hundred creatures invading the city, and between them were the dead bodies of guards and civilians.

Whiterun was awake with the sounds of screaming. Tristan summoned his Bound Sword and ran to rendezvous with the guards he hoped he'd awakened.

His hopes proved true. Near the barracks a force of the City Guard were fighting against the creatures, but they slashed and bashed with their shields.

One guard, the commander, Tristan assumed, was calling orders.

"Keep them back, men! We can't kill them without killing ourselves!"

Tristan ran to the commander, dodging between creatures who were advancing. On his way, Tristan slashed some of their elbows. It seemed this only temporarily hindered them, as the elbows would click back into place moments later.

"Commander!" Tristan called.

The guard looked at him.

"I carry orders from Dragonsreach. Flee the city, evacuate the townspeople." Tristan shook his head. "This is a fight you cannot win."

The commander opened his mouth to argue, but quickly closed it. He nodded grimly, and relayed the orders to his men.

Tristan turned and took off up into the city. He found many citizens and told them with urgency what to do. Some of them were scared and confused, others were leaders, and joined in with helping.

One message spread through all of Whiterun: "We need to escape. Now."

Tristan had run for what felt like hours, but what he was sure was only a few minutes. Most of the citizens had been lead to the main gates, where the guards had set up a shield wall to prevent the creatures from attacking the public.

The creatures were relentless in the fighting. The seemed to hold an infinite amount of stamina. The guards were tiring under the constant and steady assault, whereas the creatures showed no sign of easing up.

Tristan was glad he hadn't faced one yet.

Tristan hurried some more citizens towards the main gate, and then he heard a scream.

He turned, and saw a creature bearing down on a young girl, no more than ten years of age.

Acting on adrenaline, Tristan charged. He bowled the creature backwards before it could deal the final blow to the child.

He slashed with his Bound Sword, catching the surprised creature across the chest. The creature screeched and lunged. Tristan brought the Ward up to defend himself. The creatures inhuman blade struck the Ward and dissolved into black powder. The creature screeched and took a step back, pain and fury evident in its blood-red eyes.

Tristan turned and scooped up the still screaming child. He flung her over his shoulder and sprinted for the main gate.

The commander was waving his arm, gesturing for the guards to fall back. Many lay dead on the streets; the shield wall had been reduced to a flimsy two dozen men.

"We're getting out of here! Retreat! Retreat!" The captain cried.

Tristan let the girl run from the gate and he joined ranks with he remaining City Guard. They moved back slowly, the creatures very quickly losing interest in them.

They waited for some time outside the gates, waiting for the creatures to make an offensive, but they showed no sign of wanting to leave the city. They just stood, staring with their unblinking, blood-red eyes, a stare that would haunt the dreams of all those who fell under it.

At last, the guards and Tristan broke formation and ran to catch up with the rest of the living.

* * *

The guards and the townspeople marched. The night was filled with sobbing and silence, reflection and grief over the events that had ensued. The remaining guards had formed ranks at the front and back of the civilians.

"Thank you for your help," the commander told Tristan.

"Where will we go?" Tristan asked.

"Windhelm," the commander said with finality. "It's the most secure city in Skyrim."  
_We all thought Whiterun was secure,_ Tristan thought as they walked, the civilians walking in single file ahead of them.

At last, the sun rose, and when it did, it was rising on a new age. Tristan walked with the living, leaving the blood-soaked streets of Whiterun behind.


	5. Chapter 5 - The Black Hand

**Chapter 5: The Black Hand**

As Ria thundered down the road on a stolen horse, she wondered how many more surprises were in store for her.

She was used to hiccups in her assassinations- working around them was her specialty- but this was getting a little extreme. Motierre's murder had been the easiest part; she'd arrived in Whiterun a little before noon, but stayed in a room at the Drunken Huntsman until nightfall. When she approached him in his room at the Bannered Mare, weaving unnoticed through the gathering crowd, he'd handed her an satchel full of gold and jewels, some almost the size of her fist, thanking her profusely and prattling on and on. One would think that he might have shut up when Ria plunged the Blade of Woe into his chest, but to no avail; he still had some life in him, so he to flapped his gums. Politicians were like that, Ria supposed.

"Your damn contract got my friend killed, and for what?" She'd snarled, twisting the blade torturously for only the second time in her life. "Power? Riches? How much shallower can you get?"

"You betrayed me." Motierre had choked, blood coming to the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, you are a smart one." she'd replied dryly.

That had been several hours ago now; the surprising part had come- well, started- acouple hours after she locked the body in it's room and stashed the satchel near the stables.

For all her paranoia, Maven had been sparse for details about the whereabouts of her quarry. Lucian hadn't exactly been telling the truth when he said the contract was in Whiterun; Black-Briar's note had said that the target might be in Whiterun. Suffice to say, that tidbit of information endowed no confidence into Ria for this little endeavour. The rest of the note was alittle more helpful, giving a height estimate, race, and a name: Tristan Dorrien. The Bannered Mare was just barely starting to quiet down when she'd slipped once again into the door at perhaps two thirty, and she'd set to work.

Hulda had been behind the bar; she'd been a constant fixture in the place for as long as Ria could remember. The assassin hadn't fear being recognized, though; they'd only met acouple times when she was younger, and Ria had grown dramatically since then. She'd quickly asked after Dorrien ("My brother said he'd meet me here,"), and, upon learning which room he'd rented, rented her own and retired there.

Another hour or so later, when the last drunkard had stumbled from the inn and Hulda had fallen asleep on a bar stool, Ria emerged again, the Blade of Woe clutched firmly in her right hand.

She'd took the stairs up to the balcony room, easing in and seeing a man, her target, asleep on the bed. She'd shut the door silently behind her, taking a step towards the bed.  
It was a creaky floorboard that had lost her the advantage, something her awoken quarry had been happy to point out, sleep still evident in his voice. He might have seemed at ease in her presence, but the falseness of that was revealed in the tenseness of his shoulders and how his eyes didn't dare to look away, even as he stood and stretched.

Ria reflected that she should have been able to put the pieces of the puzzle together sooner. Maven wanted a Breton dead, and a Breton she was going to torture had recently escaped prison. But she hadn't, and she'd rarely been more shocked in her life than when Tristan Dorrien's face was the same one that stared back at her in Solitude prison.

_Ah, irony, thou art a heartless bitch._ She thought now as she and her steed blew by the trail that led to Helgen.

She should've been able to kill him. He wasn't that different from her other targets; the only thing that set him apart was that he had tried to kill Black-Briar. Ria had no doubt the woman had done something to the man, and he was getting his revenge for it, and that was what had made Ria hesitate. It hadn't been that long ago when she and Jared were in his same boat, and she knew what he was seeking in his actions. Buried deep there was sympathy for this one, because she knew he probably wouldn't find what he wanted with Maven's death.

She couldn't have let him go, so in a moment of utter weakness, she gave him a chance. She knew he probably couldn't outrun her, her father's Khajiit blood in her meant few could, but she let him try. There was always the chance that he could evade her, and that she could tell Lucian to send someone else to finish it. The Listener might bench her for awhile because of it, but she wouldn't have to do the deed herself, and that was worth it.

She'd caught up with him, though. Their blades had locked near the Drunken Huntsman, an Oblivion sword on Daedric steel. Given his obvious preference for magic, she had expected him to be a poor swordsman, but she was proven wrong. He wasn't as good as Jared had been, but few were, and perhaps if the Breton wasn't recently wounded she would have found her match. But what the Breton had in magicka reserves he hadn't had in stamina, and after several minutes his blade had dispersed back into whatever Oblivion plane it'd come from.

Faced with death, he was, to Ria's displeasure, another yapper. That was starting to grind on her nerves, but she allowed him the words as her traditions dictated, though they infuriated her. For all his actions against Maven and his words to the contrary, she doubted he knew how she felt. How could he? He didn't know, yet, that after he had his revenge he would have nothing left to strive for in life; that he would have to find his own closure without relying on his retribution for it. Ria had had one thing after hers, and he was gone, and in her mind that was a feeling that Tristan Dorrien could not possibly know.

She'd been only a step away from ending the Breton when the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, almost the way they did when she was being watched. Thinking the guards had heard the battle and come to the rescue, she'd turned her head to look, and found that it wasn't a guard at all. It was a… a crack, a rift, she guessed she would have called it, a split in the air perhaps fifteen yards away that was much darker than the moonlit air around it. It had grown, expanding up and out to stretch between two shadowy pillars until it was almost as big as the gates into Whiterun.

There were only two things Ria Verres had killed for in her years: revenge and survival. She had already had her justice, and the money with which she survived was not worth her life. The three demons that emerged from the gate had barely had time to let out an ear-splitting screech before she was over the nearest wall; it was nice to know that her survival instincts had remained intact throughout her recent ordeals.

Her ankle still hurt; there'd been a cluster of boulders at the base of the wall, and she'd landed badly. But it hadn't stopped her from stumbling to the stables as fast as she could, nor from grabbing the satchel full of riches and stealing a horse.

It was almost dawn now; Whiterun was hours behind her. She crested a hill, and before the forests of Falkreath Hold spread out before her, a rolling sea of green and brown. She thought of Whiterun, and wondered if it survived. After all, it had been their home, all those years ago when she and Jared were children.

As she spurred her horse forward, into the borders of Falkreath Hold, she banished the thought. Her parents and Jared and Whiterun were dead and gone, were the past; to hold too tightly to any one of those things would drag her to oblivion with them. Her future was here, with the Brotherhood. It was the only thing she had left.

To look back would do nothing but destroy her, so she kept her eyes forward as she rode for the Sanctuary and whatever fate would bring her.

* * *

"How'd Whiterun go?" Lucian asked as Ria entered his office.

Ria shrugged. "So-so. I got Motierre's payment." She swung the heavy bag off her shoulder and dumped it on Lucian's desk, and the Listener lifted the flap, examining the contents with a satisfied look.

"And Maven's contract?"

"Dead." Ria said. There's no way he couldn't be, she thought. Then, thinking he'd probably want to know, she added, "Oh, and Whiterun's probably gone."

Lucian blinked. Several times. In rapid succession.

"Gone?"

"Well, I didn't stick around when the demon army showed up, but I don't think Whiterun could've survived."

"Demon army? Describe it to me." There was no denying it this time, Lucian was definitely suppressing a dangerous smile. Ria kept a cautious eye on him as she started to talk.

"There was this, uh, this solid-black gate thing, and those demon things started coming o- what the hell are you doing?"

The Listener had risen, and closed the distance between them in seconds to pick her up and swing her around in a circle, grinning madly the whole time. When he sat her down, she shoved him, and he grinned wider and allowed himself to be moved back a step. His body seemed to bubble over with a sudden boyish energy, and he was almost bouncing with excitement. She hadn't seen him more worked up at any point before or after learning they were going to assassinate the Emperor.

"Ria, you have no idea what this means for the Brotherhood! Everythings coming together, faster than I thought, granted, but still!"

"What are you babbling about?" Ria demanded. Lucian laughed, grabbing her and spinning them both in a circle.

"We're going to be on top of the world!" he said. Ria jerked away from him and fixed him with a glare, but he was unfazed by the look of his subordinate.

"Touch me one more time and I'll cut off your damned fingers- and anything that looks like 'em. I swear, you hang around with Cicero too much." The last part was grumbled to herself, as his excitement reminded her of the Keeper, though that was to be expected with how much time the two men spent together. "Now what in Oblivion are you talking about?"

The Listener was still grinning madly at her. "Oh, that I can't say yet. I want to announce it to everyone at once. But I can tell you that the Brotherhood is going to have more power than ever before. We're going to be kings!"

Ria was no where near as excited about the prospects of power as her superior; at the minute, she was just vexed. To her, the word "king" meant, in regards to the Brotherhood, that they would have whatever power and influence that they already held, along with being able to openly, publicly, and safely use it.

The Brotherhood had always stuck to the shadows, flexing their power through vague threats and blades in the dark. To be able to be public and unsecretive would take something earth-shattering.

Lucian took a deep breathe, still smiling but appearing to calm down as he turned and started moving papers about his desk. He talked as he searched through his maps and documents, the words directed more to himself than to Ria. "This is great, amazing, but so much to do… need the Hand, and to build the army... need to consult with Mother... ah, here it is!"

The Listener pulled a creased map out from under some books, laying it on top of a relatively empty space on his desk. He motioned Ria over, and she approached warily, looking over his shoulder at the map.

"I hate to send you out again when you've just gotten back, but I need you to do something for me."

"Name it." Ria said instantly; anything to keep her occupied.

"There's a Nordic ruin here called Hag's End." Lucian said, pointing to a spot in the mountains west of Dragon's Bridge. "It used to be the Brotherhood's center of power acouple eras ago, and it still contains some of our artifacts. You have to go through Deepwood Redoubt, but you should be able to get to it."

"What am I looking for?" Ria asked.

"A gauntlet called the Black Hand. It'll be pretty deep in, and heavily guarded. You'll know it when you see it."

Ria regarded him for several moments. She had several questions, such as what made this gauntlet so important to him, and why that demon gate had him so excited, but something else caught her attention that she cared much more about.

"Heavily guarded by what?"

Any joy or excitement of Lucian's was gone; he was dead serious now. "Draugr." He said, and seeing Ria's face, added, "I know open combat was more Jared's specialty than it is yours-" Ria flinched, not used to Jared being referred to in past tense, "-but you know as well as I do that none of the others could fare as well as you."

Ria had rarely cursed her amount of training; this was one of those times. Most of her Siblings were no pushovers in battle, and they could no doubt hold their own against up to acouple adversaries, but they were not used to it. Ria and Jared had trained for it, though, something that was the only reason why she'd lasted this long in some of her hairier assassinations. Being swarmed by Draugr was not going to be pleasant, and it was going to test her only-semi-good swordsmanship, but she would- probably- survive it.

She sighed and raked a hand through her hair. "I'm going to need a bow. And a sword."

Lucian nodded. "Good. Tell Lynch that he's not to charge you, and then send in Coyle and Seba. I have a job for them in Windhelm."

Ria arched an eyebrow at him; two assassins working the same job was rare, and the assassins themselves didn't much like it.

"You have alot of explaining to do when I get back, Lucian." She said. The Listener waved her off with a 'yeah, yeah' gesture, and she rolled her eyes before going in search of her Siblings.

* * *

Ria found Lynch, the Brotherhood's resident blacksmith, working in the main cavern of the Sanctuary. The lean Nord was shirtless, to keep from overheating from the sweltering forge as he sharpened Babette's dagger; said vampire had pulled up a chair, impatiently waiting for him to finish.

"For gods' sake Lynch, put some cloths on. There are children about." Ria said, leaning against the wall and watching them. Babette stuck her tongue out at the half-Imperial assassin, making her grin.

"There, all done, ya little devil." Lynch said, slowing the grindstone to a stop and presenting the blade handle-first to Babette. The un-child said a quick thank-you and ran off with it, making Lynch shake his head and smile before he looked up at Ria. "What can I do for ya?"

"I need a bow and a sword. Lucian said it's on the house."

"'Lucian said it's on the house'." Lynch imitated before scoffing. "I'm never gonna be able to turn a profit with Lucian makin' me work outta the kindness of my heart."

"Oh, shut it. You don't pay rent or put anything towards supplies, so you can earn your keep."

"Don't snap at me, pup." Lynch warned, no real threat in his voice. "Did you have anything specific in mind?"

"Orcish bow, elven sword."

"Ah. You and Jared do prefer elven blades, don't you?"

Ria winced at the name but flicked the Blade of Woe out, twirling it easily around her fingers. "This look elvish to you?"

"Fair enough. Your things will be done by supper."

Ria nodded her thanks and sought out Coyle and Seba, whom she found in the dining room with Babette. The vampire and Coyle were deep in discussion; the pair were almost as close as Ria and Jared had been. According to the stray comments over the years, she had put together that this was because the young Redguard was some relation to Nazir, the late Speaker and Babette's close friend.

Seba, a Dunmer, was nursing a mead and reading by the room's fire. She and Ria had never really gotten along; the older assassin had thought Ria and Jared petty cutthroats that didn't deserve to be omitted into a professional guild such as the Brotherhood. Their relationship hadn't been improved by the fact that both of them were easily twice the bladesman as the archery-and-poison based dark elf.

"Coyle, Seba, Lucian has a job for you." Ria relayed from the doorway.

Both rose instantly, Seba setting her book down on the long dining table and Coyle saying a quick good-bye. Ria knew that both were sympathetic to her loss because Seba didn't look at her with the usual disdain, and because Coyle stopped as he passed her to lay a hand on her shoulder.

"We've gathered Jared's things. They're yours by all rights."

Ria nodded. "My thanks."

She glanced up the stairs that led from the dining room to the bedrooms, dread sweeping over her. She didn't want to go through Jared's things, didn't want that reminder. Babette must have noticed this, because she hopped off her chair and said, "I'll help."

She did, and that's how they occupied their time until supper. Jared didn't have much, just two crates full of possessions that the boys had set on Ria's bed. Babette pulled out items and inquired of their importance while Ria cataloged them in her assassin's log; her mother had bestowed in both her daughter and her daughter's friend the idea of keeping track of your own finances. Ria's log contained the name of her targets, the cost of supplies for the job, and the reward, and Jared's was similar.

Jared had few things that were of value to Ria; a few pieces of jewelry and miscellaneous items looted from targets took up the most of it; they would fetch a fair price, but they were nothing she particularly cared about. His diary and own assassination log she kept next to hers in her nightstand, along with a rather sizable sum of gold she'd now inherited. The only thing that really caught Ria's attention was the bone-handle dagger Babette found in a simply adorned box, it's blade perhaps ten inches long.

"What's this?" Babette asked, recognizing that it's placement in a padded box meant it held some value. Ria took it gently.

"I made this for Jared's sixteenth birthday. I'm surprised he kept it all these years."

She slipped the dagger and it's sheath on her sword belt, so that the Blade of Woe set on her right hip and the bone-handled blade on her left. It was about that time that dinner was ready, a feast laid out. Lucian toasted to the Brotherhood's future and Jared's memory, nodding to Ria during that last part, and Ria did what any Skyrim-born person would do after their best friend, their brother had died: she got cross-eyed drunk.

Babette woke her the next morning at Lucian's behest, giving her a small health potion and some willow bark for the migraine and informing her that Coyle and Seba had left for Windhelm. Ria downed them both items before gathering her things and staggering down the stairs, picking up her sword and bow from Lynch. She was in Falkreath well before noon.

* * *

Ria stumbled into the room, leaning on the wall and breathing heavily. A glance several seconds earlier had told her that the room was empty of Draugr, a relief to the wounded assassin. She swung her small knapsack from her shoulder, sliding down the wall with a grimace and pulling a roll of bandages from one of the bag's pockets. The gash across her side was bleeding steadily, and she set to work wrapping the cloth around her torso and cinching it tight.

_Damn overgrown skeletons,_ Ria thought to herself, checking the dressing wrapped around her arm; she had tried to take out as many as she could from a distant, but acouple had made it close enough to force her to engage them with sword and dagger, and she was out of practice with the former. She was thankful she'd spent so much time sparring against a sword-wielding Jared; without it, she probably would be dead by now instead of just injured. She was also thankful for the bandits who had apparently taken up residence in Hag's End; their bodies seemed to have been dead for several years, but the absence of draugr past a certain point meant they'd cleaned them out for her.  
She stood slowly and looked around. A bookshelf was to her left, a drawbridge erect to her right and a throne directly in front of her, three thick red spikes protruding from either side of it. She eased her way around the room, grimacing as pain lanced through her but ignoring it. It should be somewhere nearby; the throne signified that to her.  
She went to the bookcase after several minutes, hoping to find some clue as to how to proceed. Most of the books were old and damaged, and several loose sheets of paper sat on top. She searched through them, finding a half-written letter and the details of an assassination contract. She came across another paper, detailing some kind of spell; magic was not her area of expertise- she knew nothing but a weak healing spell- but her high elf Brother, Cirion, could have use of it, so she tucked it in her assassin's log and replaced both in the backpack.

After several seconds of finding nothing, she lowered the drawbridge and continued on, moving slowly. She mounted three sets of stairs, each one making her wince. She came to a point where the hallway ended, a gate to her right and another at an angle forward and to her left. Peering into the left showed a small dead-end room, so she pulled a lever and went right.

It was only the number of traps that'd almost taken her out that let her avoid the metal spikes that shot out of the wall; she'd earlier been grazed by a swinging log and cracked a rib, having to use on of her two healing potions to mend it.

She mounted two flights of stairs, timing it to be in between the sections of the spears, and emerged into a roughly-circular room.

_Now we're talking,_ she thought as she surveyed her surroundings. In the center of the room sat a large-diameter, half-foot-deep indentation in the floor, and straight ahead and slightly to her left was a raised platform, a square pillar halfway encircled by red spikes on the end nearest the indention. She mounted the steps and stopped, surveying the top of the pillar. A small bowl-like indentation was carved into it. Ria stared at it for several seconds, thinking.

The pillar and the indention in the floor gave her the feeling of a shrine or a ritual, and the more she thought of a ritual involving the Dark Brotherhood the more an idea was confirmed. She drew Jared's bone-handle dagger and pricked her left index finger with it, sheathing the knife and squeezing the skin around the small wound so that blood dripped into the bowl. It took many drops before a voice rang out, breathy and unsettling.

"What are the Words that Bind?" something unseen asked, and Ria instantly recognized it as a voice similar to the Black Door.

This took several minutes of thought; Lucian hadn't mentioned a riddle. Then again, it was possible he didn't know about it. She started to figure, slowly, that the person entitled to a Dark Brotherhood artifact would be the Listener. It took time to recall a specific phrase, one that Cicero had mentioned in one of his ramblings when she'd asked about the Night Mother. If she weren't as close to Lucian and Cicero as she was, she probably wouldn't know it.

_Here goes nothing._ "Darkness rises when silence dies."

The ground vibrated slightly as the indention in the floor split and opened up, a pillar similar to the one in front of her rising to it's center. The top opened up, revealing a gauntlet inside.

"Hail Sithis, sister." The voice said before falling silent.

Ria approached the gauntlet slowly, both to avoid agitating her wound and to be cautious. When she stood before it, she saw that it was not unlike her black-and-red shrouded glove, shaped and armored the same; the Black Hand, however, was colored ebony on every inch of leather, and dark purple jems were set into it in neat rows that ran from the back of the hand and up the forearm. Just standing close to it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She took it gently and tucked it in her knapsack.

It took little time to get out of the ruins and back on the road. The moon was high in the sky; she'd entered Deepwood Redoubt in late evening, and she'd been in there several hours. If she stole a horse and traveled as the crow flies, she could be in Falkreath again by late morning tomorrow.

Ria downed her last health potion as she walked, eager to make good time; she very much wanted to hear Lucian's explanation for all this.


	6. Chapter 6 - Fragments

Chapter 6: Fragments

It took three days to reach Windhelm. The survivors could have reached it in half that time, but with the injured and the devastation of previous events fresh in everyone's minds, it only made sense that the journey had taken longer.

Tristan was seen as some sort of a hero, and he reluctantly helped the guards keep the survivors in line. Despite his reluctance, he bit back his unwillingness and helped, otherwise he'd only see the job of keeping everyone safe half done; and out of the many things his late parents had taught him, it was to never leave a job half-finished.

They'd make camp every night, and they'd pack up every morning, but the going was slow. Some of the City Guard along with the surviving Companions would form hunting parties every night and scout for food for the following day. Under the Commander's instruction, Tristan was accepted into a hunting party and taught the basics of marksmanship. Tristan's reluctance seemed to be matched by his teacher: one of the common guards who (aside from the Companions) was the best shot with a bow among the company. But the Commander's insistence was coated with finality, broaching no room for other discussion.

"It would be good to have another trained archer among the company," the Commander said. "Besides, why would you wait for an enemy to reach you when you could pin them down with an arrow?"

In Tristan's less than humble opinion, the Commander's view on the matter was rather tunnel-visioned, but he didn't argue. In some ways it was a blessing to be free of the straggling survivors and out in the freedom of the wilderness. Tristan had been given a fairly standard hunting bow and a few dozen arrows. As it turned out, Tristan had a natural grasp of archery, or at least the principles behind it. On the second night of hunting Tristan had successfully shot and killed his first deer, and he'd been ecstatic at the achievement. The guard had said he'd picked up on the skill "unnaturally fast".

But then the hunt would end, and hunting parties would return to feed the throng of hungry survivors. Every time Tristan returned to the survivors the devastation would hit him afresh. The once buzzing and enthusiastic citizens of Whiterun – formally standing at a respectable fifteen hundred people strong – had been reduced to only a few hundred people. Tristan had learned the names of most of the survivors, and it came as a source of some sorrow and grief to learn that Hulda was not among them. Tristan didn't know whether it was legitimate or whether it was the unfortunate mix of exhaustion and alcohol, but he'd taken quite a liking to the friendly barmaid.

Regardless of the feelings he had or hadn't felt towards her, Tristan would always dump his kill (should there be one) at one of the cooking fires before slinking to the edges of the group and taking a seat, cross-legged, and closing his eyes, focussing with all of his might to reach into the depths of Oblivion with his mind.

The way Tristan saw it, he could summon a sword and a dagger from Oblivion, there was no reason why he couldn't summon a bow. And so he sat, every night, focussing, searching the different Planes of Oblivion for the Bound Bow.

Early in the morning of the second day he found it, and grasping at it with his fingers, he performed his instinctive plucking and pulled the bow from Oblivion. The effort had nigh on exhausted him, and black spots danced in front of his eyes. But he was determined to master the spell, so when he wasn't watching over the survivors from the back of the line or hunting with one of the hunting parties, he was practicing pulling the Bound Bow from Oblivion and shooting.

By the time the survivors had reached Windhelm Tristan was an adept archer, and he could loose a dozen Spectral Arrows from the Bound Bow before depleting his magicka completely.

The city of Ysgramor rose up, black and grey into the sky. The sight of the city was majestic at the very least, with large, impenetrable walls and the white snow dancing about the peaks of the Palace of Kings.

A shout went up from the Stromcloaks patrolling the walls as the straggle of survivors limped slowly towards the city.

"Come," the Commander said to Tristan, gesturing for him to move to the front of the mass of people. Tristan did so.

A squad of a dozen guards had been dispatched from the city to meet with the survivors. Their hands were ready on the hilts of their swords, and at close inspection Tristan could see the archers on the walls were ready to shoot on command.

Tristan couldn't help but shake his head.

_Another paranoid leader…_

"Why do you bring these people here?" One of the Stormcloaks of Windhelm asked.

"We are survivors from Whiterun," the Commander replied, obviously having rehearsed what he was to say upon arriving. "Our city was plagued by an unknown evil. A battle for survival have thinned our numbers. We are all cold, hungry, and some of us sick and injured. If you would be so kind as to accommodate us in this time of need, we would be eternally grateful."

Tristan and the assembled guards waited expectantly for the Stormcloak's reply.

The Stormcloak could sense this, and looked uneasily to the guards behind him.

"I'm sure," he said at length. "Our king would be honoured to see you protected behind our walls."

"Thank you," the Commander said, bowing.

"If you would bring your people into the gates, we can arrange for their healing and recuperation."

"Again, I thank you. But there is one other thing."

The Stormcloak raised an eyebrow. "And what would that be."

"I demand an audience with our High King, Ulfric Stormcloak."

* * *

Tristan thought the Palace of Kings was magnificent on the outside, but to him the inside was even more so.

The stone walls were polished and glistening, and reached skyward to a roof that would have stood high among the clouds. The floor was also stone, and again was polished so that it shone in the torchlight that the palace was thrown under.

A long table adorned the middle of the main hall, and Tristan felt his stomach rumble as he saw the meats, breads and cheeses that were placed there. At the back of the hall on a raised flat of stone sat a throne, and on that throne sat the High King of Skyrim: Ulfric Stormcloak himself.

Being raised in the Stormcloak controlled city of Riften, Tristan had heard stories of the legendary feats Ulfric and his rebellion had accomplished during the recently passed Skyrim civil war. The fact that the Nords of Skyrim had faced down the Empire and had won – therefore winning their own independence – had inspired thousands of people not just within Skyrim, but also throughout all of Tamriel.

It had been with great reluctance that Tristan had agreed to be present during the meeting with Ulfric. Part of him simply wanted to rest and recuperate before he left Windhelm, but another part of him wanted to see the Palace of Kings, and the High King all the jarls in Skyrim swore fealty to. And now he was here, he was glad he'd been pestered into coming.

Ulfric Stormcloak sat casually on his throne. The man was thick muscled and intimidating. His storm-grey eyes surveyed the scene before him with concern. His robes were blue with metal plates of armour at the shoulders, and his salty white flecks were present in his once dark auburn hair.

The Commander, along with Tristan, Eorlund Gray-Mane and Aela the Huntress, bowed respectfully.

"Rise," the High King said, his voice thick with a tone of authority.

The gathering did so.

"So Whiterun seeks aid?" Ulfric asked, almost smugly. "Why?"

"We were attacked, your Highness," the Commander said respectfully. "Attacked by enemies from another world."

"Oblivion?"

"Nay, these enemies were like none I've ever seen. They appeared from blackness, nothingness, they spoke not a word, merely slaughtered and killed all that they saw. Their bodies were their weapons," the Commander took a shaky breath. "I can still remember those eyes… those burning… red eyes…"

The Commander trailed off, leaving the large room in a vile, looming silence.

It was the High King who broke the silence.

"Well, whoever these enemies are, they would think twice before attacking Windhelm," Ulfric said, cocksure. "This is the most defendable city in all of Skyrim. Their chances of taking it are close to nothing."

Tristan's mind flashed back to the carnage that had occurred some days prior, and anger swelled up inside of him. He opened his mouth to speak out.

Aela sensed Tristan was about to do something drastic, and softly placed a hand on his shoulder.

He turned to the Huntress, who only shook her head.

He looked to the Commander, whose eyes were showing the anger that his body hid. He bowed tartly.

"Thank you, your Highness," he said simply, before turning and leaving.

Tristan and the rest followed him out.

* * *

It was the following day when Tristan donned his pack and made his way to the gates of Windhelm. After the encounter with Ulfric Stormcloak, Tristan was more willing to leave the massive walled city. The High King may be strong, and clever, but his arrogance would be his death.

Tristan made some final adjustments to the pack so that it didn't dig into his back, and heaved on the gates.

"Leaving so soon?" The Commander asked from where he was leaning outside the gate.

"I don't belong here," Tristan said simply. "I have other business to attend to."

The Commander spat on the cobblestone. "Listen, Tristan," he started. "Without you, we would have lost at least another dozen people back in Whiterun. At _least. _Regardless of what you say, the Guard, and the citizens, respect you. You _do _belong here. You're a hero to some of us."

Tristan sighed. "Thank you, Commander," he said, bowing politely.

The Commander took his hand and shook it firmly. "It's an honour."

Tristan turned and piled himself onto the cart that would take him south.

"You ready?" The driver called.

"Aye," Tristan confirmed.

As the cart rolled away, the Commander watched it go.

"Remember, Tristan," he shouted after the carriage. "A hero!"

Tristan waved, then turned to the road ahead of him.

_That's exactly why I'm leaving…_

* * *

Riften was just as peaceful – maybe even more so – than it was when Tristan had planned his arrack on Maven Black-Briar all those days ago.

_Days? Weeks? _Tristan shook his head at the thought. Time was a funny thing, a thing Tristan couldn't bother to understand.

When the guards let Tristan in without a word, he was almost insulted. Almost.

_I make an attempt on the life of Riften's Jarl and they just let me in like any other person? _

But then he remembered the Dark Brotherhood assassin, and how – even though Tristan made it out alive – the assassin would have told her superiors that he was dead. He didn't blame her, that's just how the odds tipped the scale.

And it made his getting into Riften much easier.

Tristan stuck to the backstreets of the city on the lake, trying his hardest to keep out of sight. The morning sun still wasn't so high in the sky, so shadows were cast by all buildings, making Tristan's task of invisibility all the more simple.

As Tristan prowled through the streets of Riften, he cast his mind to the reason he'd risked everything to return. The reason wasn't clear. It most certainly wasn't to make a second attempt on Black-Briar's life. It wasn't to catch up with old friends, or share a drink at the Bee and Barb. Maybe it was… Yes… That must be it…

Tristan rounded what had to be the final bend, and in front of him he saw exactly what he realised he'd come to Riften to see.

It used to be a house. Small, humble, comfortable, a home if ever there was one. Now it was just a burnt out husk. No one had bought the property, no one had bothered to rebuild it, because it was a reminder. A reminder of what happened to those who rivalled Maven Black-Briar's power.

Tristan slowly and absently walked towards the wreckage. His feet crunched on the floor, occasionally snapping the weakened wood that had been sitting there for years. He felt as if he was walking through a shadow, for as he walked he could see the house as it was – as it used to be.

He came to the part of the house where his parents used to sleep, and he could imagine the double bed, he could imagine his father snoring and his mother trying to fall back to sleep with no luck, his tiny toddler feet bounding across the floor and leaping onto the bed, and they all laughed and smiled and play-fought as all three of them tucked themselves in for a late-morning nap. The memory was beautiful.

The scene shifted and Tristan recalled his very earliest memory. Himself, but a small child, at his mothers' hip, bouncing up and down as she ran. His father was in front of them, standing at a cart, waving at them to hurry. All Tristan heard as he was piled on board was his father say: "We have to get out of here."

The scene changed again, with Tristan, his mother, and his father, setting up the furniture in their new house, in this new city, as far as they could get from whatever they were running from. Tristan remembered his fathers' smile.

"This Maven person is dangerous," Tristan's mother said as they sat around a table one night for dinner. "You shouldn't be competing with her."

"I always liked a challenge," Tristan's father replied. "Besides, I've seen what she's doing to this town. I know I can do better. If I just keep doing what I'm doing the people will force her out."

"If you keep doing what you're doing you could put your entire family in danger."

His father leaned over and kissed his mother on the cheek. "I know what I'm doing. I need you to trust me."

Months later and there was a knock on the door. Tristan heard the muffled yells of his father as he scorned whoever had come to their door. The argument went only for a few minutes, and when the door slammed shut Tristan's father came to his room and held him in a hug for a long time. All Tristan remembered was feeling confused.

More time passed and Tristan's father returned to their home, beaten and bruised.

"Who did this to you?" His mother demanded, immediately putting the kettle on to heat some water and taking a wet cloth to dab at his wounds.

"Some of Maven's thugs," his father laughed weakly. "Don't worry yourself too much. It will take more than a beating to put me out of action."

"Why do you continue to do this?"

"Because Skyrim has given us so much," his father said determinedly. "I've seen how the people here live. I know I can give something back if I just try." He locked eyes with Tristan, and the words were burned into his mind.

The scene changed again, Tristan woke up to screaming. He ran from his room into his parents, and saw the black-clad people standing over the dead shape of his father. He locked eyes with his mother, who was crying, held at the throat with the tip of a blade digging into her skin.

"Tristan…" she tried. "Run…"

And he did.

He ran.

He turned and fled, the assassins attempting to follow him. But as he left the house it was caught in an almighty fire, a mystical blaze that Tristan would come to learn to be a Fire Storm. Magic that could only have been cast by his mother.

Whether or not the assassins survived, Tristan was unsure, but they didn't follow.

He kept running.

The memories evaporated and now Tristan stood, seeing the house as it was. A pile of blackened wood, a memory in itself.

He cast his mind back to the events of the previous days. Enemies attacked, people died, and now they were scared and alone.

The echoes of his father lived inside Tristan, and his father would have done the brave thing and stood with those people. Tristan had run from the responsibility of caring for them.

_Give something back._

He'd run when he was a child.

He'd run just days before.

It just wasn't in his blood to run.

And he didn't want to run anymore.


	7. Chapter 7 - The Dark Brotherhood Forever

**Chapter 7: The Dark Brotherhood Forever**

Ria limped towards the Black Door as the sun climbed to it's peak. Falkreath had been up and bustling when she sold her stolen horse there- she already had the one from Whiterun, and didn't need two. The gold jingling in the pouch at her side should have made it feel like she'd accomplished something, but in all honesty, she was just tired.

"Ria!" Lucian said as she slipped in, and she jumped nearly out of her skin, not having expected him to be waiting by the door. His eyes held a boyish energy, but behind them was a flash of- greed? ambition?- that told her why he was so eager for her return, even before he added, "Did you get it? The Black Hand?"

She nodded, swinging her bag from her shoulder to get it. She winced as she did so; the wound in her side had been mostly healed by the potion, but it was still sore. Lucian noticed, and for a second the eager glint was replaced with concern.

"You alright?"

She knelt down next to the bag, lifting the flap and rummaging for the gauntlet. "I'll live. Damned draugr." Her hand closed around the gauntlet, the contact sending a shiver down her spine. That thing set her on edge. "Here." she added as she handed it to him.

He took it gently, gazing at it as though he had been giving a star. A slow smile, part awe and part predatory, spread across his face. "Thank you, Ria." he said quietly. "You've done more for the Brotherhood than you could ever know."

"Perhaps the Brotherhood would like to show its gratitude in gold, then." she jested with a smile. Lucian laughed.

"Don't worry, I have an idea for your reward. In the meantime, I'd like you to gather the others. I have an announcement to make."

"About the demon army." She said. It was a statement, not a question, and the Listener shot her a curious look.

"Yes? How-?"

"I've known you for ten years, Lucian. Don't act so surprised."

He looked at her, thoughtful, then shook his head and smiled. "I guess you're right. Just go get the others." As she closed her pack, he added, "And have Cirion look you over. I need you clear-headed later."

Now it was Ria's turn to look thoughtfully at him. He was hiding something again- not as secretly this time, granted, because his mentions of a reward and 'needing her clear-headed' meant that it was more of a surprise than a secret. Still, Ria didn't much like it.

"I'm always clear-headed, Brother." she said, swinging her bag back over her shoulder and delving into the Sanctuary. She sought out Cirion, and found him and most of the Family eating lunch in the dining hall- minus Coyle and Seba, who were still in Windhelm.

"The wayward daughter returns!" Lynch said when he saw her in the doorway, raising his glass of ale. "What mighty task did the Listener have you out on?"

"Playing fetch." She answered with a small smile, then added, "Lucian has an announcement. I'm guessing that we're gathering in the Chamber."

The others rose at once, and Ria stepped to the side as they filed out into the cavern that contained the forge, waterfall, and the Night Mother's coffin, dubbed the Chamber by Ria. Cirion, a handsome Altmer with golden skin, hair, and eyes, was at the end of the line, and she grabbed his arm.

"Mind patchin' me up real quick?"

"Of course, Sister." He said, voice it's usual smoothness. His hands alighted with a strong healing spell. "Where were you injured?"

She lifted her leather cuirass to show the closed-over gash that ran under her ribs, several inches above her hip. He pressed his hand there, and warmth radiating from the spot, easing the soreness into non-existence.

"Thanks." she said when he stepped back. She was about to give him the paper she had found, but it was then that they heard Lucian's voice, projected so that it boomed off the cavern walls, from the next room.

"Brothers! Sisters!" he called, and any conversations quieted. Ria and Cirion stepped into the room, the spell forgotten in her ledger. They slipped behind the others, who had gathered in a group at the base of the waterfall, gazing upward.

Lucian stood at the summit of the cliff from which the water fell, a giant, stained-glass depiction of a skeletal Sithis behind him. It's reds and golds caused Lucian's attire to stand out; he'd change clothes, and the Dark Brotherhood armor he now wore was pitch-black, absent of the usual red, glimmering where the light hit it right and highlighted the enchantments it bore. The hood was thrown down to reveal his sharp, handsome features, and a gold circlet inset with onyx rested on his head and emphasized his dark hair and eyes.

For a minute, Ria was dumbstruck; gone was the sharp-minded Brother who laughed at her jokes and was overzealous in torture. In his place was a king, with a stance that was regal and a face that was dangerous, fit to lead armies, assassins- demons.

"You may have heard the news of what happened to Whiterun." Murmurs of assent went through the five gathered assassins, though Cicero was surprisingly quiet, a wicked, knowing grin across his face. Ria exchanged a curious look with Babette. "The Brotherhood does not need to fear attack from the creatures who cause so much destruction. In fact-" he held up his hand, and on it he wore the gauntlet he had called the Black Hand, dark purple gems catching the light. Ria suddenly knew, with certainty, what his next words would be, even before a viper's grin spread over her Listener's face. "It's the rest of the world needs to fear attack, from the masters of those creatures. Us."

She had been expecting it, but it still made her head swim. She thought of the creatures that she'd seen, their black bodies and piercing, haunting red eyes. One had destroyed a guard and part of a cell, and a small legion had taken down a city. And Lucian- somehow, impossibly- thought he would control them.

We're going to be kings, he'd said. Looking at him now, she finally believed him.

Conversation rose at Lucian's statement, disbelief going through the group. Cicero sung a lilting tune that Ria didn't quite catch, then descended into mad cackles. Lucian watched, smiling slightly, giving his people a moment among themselves. Ria couldn't take the noise any more; she wanted answers, and she wanted them from Lucian, and she wanted them now.

"Enough!" she shouted over the others, her voice bouncing off the cavern walls. The others quieted, surprised partly by the sheer volume of the word and partly that it was Ria who, for that moment, had held such a commanding tone. They were looking at her, and she added, "Let him speak."

"Thank you, Sister." Lucian said smoothly, smiling down at her. He looked to the others. "It's much to take in, I know, and there are many parts to it. For now, I will announce this: the time has finally come. For years the Princes have risen from Oblivion in petty attempts to conquer man, but Sithis is far greater, far more powerful than any Aedra or Daedra!" Energy was leeching into his voice, infectious and exciting, and the assassins finally started to comprehend what was going on.

"Too long we've hidden in the shadows! To long now has our Father been denied that which is rightfully his! Never again!" There were scattered sounds of ascent, Lynch loudest among them, and Lucian held up his arm again; the Black Hand caught the light, and Ria swore she saw those purple gems glowing softly. "With this, we will be able to call forth the full extent our Father's armies. With this, never again do we have to hide while the world hunts us, slaughtering our Brothers and Sisters." Lucian's eyes flickered to Ria minutely, and her jaw tightened. "I promise you, my Family, that we will never hide again. We will lead the Dread Father's creatures in an army the world can't hope to stand against, and when the Void has reclaimed this world, we will be the kings!"

"Damn right!" Lynch shouted, others piling on their consent. Lucian smiled, glancing at a silent Ria. His eyes held something past excitement, something feverish and feral and all-consuming. It was both terrifying and persuasive.

The Listener, but he was so much more than that now, stepped precariously close to the edge of the cliff. "Tell me, Brothers, Sisters, will you fight with me?!"  
Shouts rang back, 'aye' and 'yes' and Lynch's 'to the last'. Lucian's smile was infectious.

"Rejoice, then! And when we've had our day of fun, we move to a new seat of power. At dawn, we're at war."

A chant went up, started by Cicero but accompanied almost instantly. "Hail Sithis! Hail the Night Mother!" Ria was swept up in the energy of it, until she too was saying it, and by the third time they were shouting it so loud that Lucian couldn't be heard as he gave a crazed, triumphant laugh.

After the third repetition, cheers and laughs went up, dispelling them from the chant, and someone called for a toast. Then they were all playfully shoving their way to the dining room and it's ale tankards. Ria watched them but lagged behind, looking up at the man standing above her.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Brother." she said softly.

Lucian laughed. "I always do."

* * *

When he had specified 'at dawn, we're at war,' it turned out the Listener was going to be less than flexible when it came to that specific time table. Three out of five assassins were hung over, the fourth had been unable to sleep thanks to Jared appearing in her dreams, and the fifth was Babette, whose usual sleeping time had been interrupted by the festivities. Lucian had had the wonderful, apparently unarguable idea that all these people would be getting up two hours before dawn.

They were to pack everything essential into a pair of wagons that the Listener had somehow come into possession of; that they did it with only a bit of shouting, arguing, and creative death threats was a comment on Lucian's leadership skills.

By the time the sun finally peeked over the eastern horizon, they were ready to travel: the Night Mother's coffin was in one wagon, which Cicero drove, and Babette, Cirion, and everything else essential was in another, directed by Lynch. Ria herself was mounted on the horse she'd stolen from Whiterun, leaving only Lucian standing in the glade outside the Sanctuary doors.

He walked to a small pond near the center of said glade, stretching his hand out over the water. Bubbles started to form instantly, bigger and bigger, until the murky waters almost looked like they were boiling. A shape rose from it, large and esquine, and within seconds, the Listener was mounted on the blackest horse Ria had ever seen, it's red eyes glowing fiercely. She couldn't help wonder if it, too, was one of those Void-demons that Lucian claimed to be able to control.

They pulled up the hill onto the main road and fell into formation, Lynch's carriage in front and Cicero's in back, with Ria and the Listener riding at their sides. The sun was setting when they finally arrived at the gates to Whiterun. The countryside was eerily quiet, vacant of any life. The animals wanted nothing to do with the creatures in the city, and all the people had either died in the attack or fled. To Ria, who had known Whiterun when it was a bustling center of trade, the silence spoke volumes.

They dismounted at the stables, leaving the horses and one of the wagons there. The only one who didn't proceed on foot was Cicero, who still drove the wagon containing the Night Mother's coffin up the road to the gates.

The group was suddenly less inclined to talk when they were in sight of the gates, and fell several paces behind Lucian and Ria. Ria might have gone with them, but she'd seen what the demons could do, and she was going to stay where it was safest: with the person who could control the creatures.

So the Dark Brotherhood stepped up to the gates of Whiterun with their Listener in the lead, flanked by Ria, and the entire group followed by a long wagon with a black coffin. Lucian raised a gloved fist- the one the Black Hand was on- and rapped on the door three times. They opened, seemingly on their own, the second his hand had lowered.

She'd been bracing herself, but it mattered little. She had a view all the way down the main street to the Bannered Mare, and said street was covered in blood. It ran in rivulets across the cobblestone, weaving together in a sanguine web. Bodies- and, perhaps worse, stray body parts- were scattered to the sides, not in the way of anyone wanting to walk but obviously present. The demons, though, were what set Ria on edge the most.

They lined the street, still as statues, red eyes boring into the group of assassins. It was the first time the half-Imperial had seen them in the light of day, and she honestly prefered them in the dark; here, in full view of the sun, their jet-black forms were a sharp contrast, even more so because their skin didn't reflect the light as it should have. It gave them the appearance of wraiths, silently waiting for their prey.

Her hand found a white-knuckled grip on her sword hilt, but Lucian made no move of unease; in fact, he was smiling. It was a viper's smile, marked by ambition and pride, and for a second she was reminded of Motierre- a psychotic, dark-humored Motierre.

The Listener strolled forward, the movement assured and confident, and Ria followed closely. The others were just getting their first glimpses of their- Sithis's- army, but they saw how their Sister reacted, and proceeded forward with similar caution.

Lucian came to a stop next to what had once been the door to the blacksmith's shop, waiting expectantly. One of the creatures finally moved, detaching from the shadow of a building and striding towards them. Ria's sword was halfway from it's sheath when Lucian placed his hand on her wrist and gave her a reassuring look. She ground her teeth together, but let the creature approach unhindered.

It stopped before them, and though it said not a word, something seemed to pass between it and the Listener. Lucian nodded and looked over his shoulder at his assassins.

"The city is ours. They'll bring up our things. Cicero-" the Listener looked past the others, to the Keeper, "They will bring up the coffin. You have my pledged word that they'll not harm Mother."

Mistrust flashed through the madman's eyes, but it was gone in a second. The one unarguable thing that Ria and he had in common was their trust in Lucian. "Of course, my little demon king! Cicero will just supervise, hmm?"

"That will work. The rest of you, we will be staying in Dragonsreach. Go on ahead; our friends-" Lucian motioned to the demon still standing in front of him, "Will show you to your rooms."

The others exchanged glances, but Lynch stepped up, his personal bag draped over his shoulder. Babette and Cirion cautiously did the same, and the group followed the creature up the street. Ria, however, stayed where she was; despite what he said, she doubted that the Keeper wouldn't attack one of those creatures, and there were only two people still living who could usually calm him down.

It seemed her concern was misplaced, because when four creatures, each built like orcs and a foot taller, stepped up to the wagon and slid the coffin out, he said not a word.

The four demons lifted it gently, setting an edge on their shoulders and steadying it with their hands as they began to walk. Cicero bounced along next to them, chattering away animatedly. Ria watched him go, marveling at his energy; she wagered he was almost old enough to be her grandfather, judging by the large streaks of grey through his red hair and the lines on his face, and yet he danced and sang and jumped around like he was a boy. It would never cease to amaze her.

They came to the doors of Dragonsreach, and held the doors open for the coffin-bearers.

"Come, I'll show you your room." Lucian said at length. They crossed to a staircase to the right of the throne, the Hall empty; the others where probably in their rooms.

At the top of the stairs, they emerged in an open area, great double doors opposite them and a map of Skyrim on a table to their right; a war room, of sorts, if the troop markers on the map were anything to go by. They passed it, then turned left. This hallway double as a balcony, with a wood railing overlooking the Great Hall on their left and doors to rooms on the right.

"Here we are," Lucian said, swinging open the door to the steward's quarters. Ria could see instantly that it was the biggest- and most luxurious- room she'd ever stayed in. The bed was a large four-poster, covered by fine forest-green blankets and set with what were probably goose-down pillows. The furniture was smooth oak, all obviously kept in pristine condition. Ria let out a low whistle.

"If this is my room, the Jarl's quarters must be huge." she said, throwing her bag down on the bed and following suit. The mattress was soft and firm, a welcome upgrade from the straw-filled one on her old bed.

Lucian stepped in after her, shutting the door behind him. Ria propped herself up on her elbows, watching him warily as he pulled a chair from a nearby table and settled in front of her.

"I'd like to talk to you about your reward." he said, suddenly serious, and Ria sat up fully, swinging her legs off the side of the bed.

"What'd you have in mind?"

It was several seconds before he answered, "There are two parts to it. The first is already underway, and I want you to know that it will be completed no matter your... reaction to the second part." Unease prickled at the half-Imperial. Can he be more cryptic? she thought. Lucian paused for only a second before continuing. "I sent word to our Sanctuary in Cyrodiil. They're going to try and get you Maro."

At first she was surprised, but as the information registered, anger and excitement roared through her chest, her fingers twitching in anticipation. It was a rare occasion where she wanted to kill someone, wanted to see the look in the bastard's eyes as the life drained from them. She wondered if he would recognize her. She hoped he did; then he'd know just what it was he'd done to bring about his fate.

"Thank you, Lucian. In means alot." she said quietly. "What's the second part of this reward?"

He took a deep breath. "Ria, as you know, the assassins here in Skyrim have been without a Speaker since Nazir passed. With certain things starting to happen, I'm going to have to coordinating with the Speakers from sanctuaries across the province. There are times where I'm going to need to be away, for days or weeks." Oh no. Not a good idea.

"In my absence, I need someone who can keep things running smoothly, and adapt to changing scenarios, if need be." he paused, searching her face. "I'd like you to accept the position of Speaker of Skyrim."

Ria was shaking her head before he was even completely done talking. "Lucian, I appreciate the offer, but we both know I'm not a people person."

"You don't have to be. I'm not asking you to be my second in command, I'm asking you to keep the Family intact for a few days at a time. You work well with them. You'd be excellent." Ria couldn't help but think he looked alittle hurt by her answer, but it didn't stop him from arguing. She tried to think of another way out of this; she still wasn't back to a good place emotionally, and now was not the time to suddenly become responsible for other people's lives.

She frantically searched for an argument. "Shouldn't this position be going to Babette, or Seba?" It was almost physically painful to suggest the latter be made her superior.

"They've been with the Brotherhood longer than either of us."

"I asked both of them two days ago." To say Ria was slightly offended wouldn't have been a lie, but she reminded herself that she didn't want the position right now. "Babette has expressed her disinterest in a position of power several times. Seba declined once she learned that she'd be spending less time in the field."

If there was one thing he could have said to peak her interest, it was that. They both knew what 'less time in the field' meant for her: that she wouldn't have to kill, or at least as much. Though she'd never said it outright, and Lucian didn't pretend to completely understand it, he knew that she disliked that aspect of her job. To be allowed out of it was a reward indeed.

Lucian saw her wavering, and leaned forward to clasp her hands between his. "Please, Ria. I stuck my neck out for you. Mother thought you'd be more useful out in the field, but I told her you would excel as our Speaker." His gaze was softly encouraging. "I don't think I was wrong."

Ria moaned loudly and fell back on her bed. "Alright. Fine. Thank you, I mean. I'll do it."

Lucian jumped up and clapped his hands together, all sombreness gone. "Excellent. As my Speaker, then, I want your opinion on something."

He strolled out the room and down the hall, to the area with the bookshelf and war-table. The Listener rummaged through the books for a moment, opening them and then putting them back until he found the one he was looking for. He laid it out on the table, revealing a hand-sketched map of Riverwood, complete with approximate building and wall locations.

"How would you seize this town?" he asked. She studied the map for a moment, deciding it was best not to ask why.

"I'd go in at night and put a mounted soldier here and here," she said, pointing to each gate. "Place an archer on the roof here," she pointed to the blacksmith's house, "And send in a small group of men from each gate. They'd spread out, work across town, and meet in the middle."

"Hhmm. How many men do you think you'd require?"

"Around fifteen in the main force, plus the other three I mentioned."

Lucian thought it over for a minute. "I like it. Quick and simple." He smiled, a wicked expression that held only dark humour. "Let's put it to the test." The Listener straightened and added, "Tell the others to gear up. It's time to expand our reach."

* * *

The moons shone brightly in the night, one waning and the other nearly full. It was the only sources of illumination for the guards patrolling Riverwood. Some of the locals had joined their ranks, the town needing the militia more than ever with Whiterun destroyed.

They were still no match for the shadows that descended on them.

The group patrolling the gates were the first to notice something amiss. Men and women on each wall saw mounted, cloaked figures approaching, something that was only alittle alarming; hunters kept odd hours, as some animals being more active at night, and travelers often passed through on the way to Whiterun. As the strangers approached, though, one towards each gate, the guards could just make out their eyes, glowing a fierce, unnatural red.

Fear gripped the Nord, and he opened his mouth to raise the alarm, only for an arrow to fly through his neck, ending the sound in his throat. Arrows suddenly flew from inside the town, taking out guards on each gate with deadly precision. One soldier, a woman, staggered to a bone warhorn, an arrow sticking through her chest, and managed one long blow before she collapsed.

It was no use. The townspeople were roused, the rest of the guards and armed citizens suddenly on the streets, only to meet shadows that cut through them with ease. Some of their assailants were pitch-black creatures, their blades part of their bodies; others wore dark leather armor and sliced through men and woman with daggers and swords. Their appearance made no difference to the citizens of Riverwood. They were all demons.

Seba and Coyle had returned from Windhelm to Whiterun with enough time to report the findings of their scouting mission to Lucian- and, with her new position, Ria. The Dark Elf now slipped from the roof of the blacksmith's shop where she and Ria had opened fire on the guards. She joined up with Coyle, Cirion, and Lynch, who had a handful of Void-creatures through the nearby gate and were battling their way towards the center of town. Ria stayed where she was, watching the town with an eagle eye, picking off people who tried to jump into her Siblings' already-started fights

Her bow sang almost constantly, taking a life for ever arrow she fired, but she felt only a dim sense of guilt. They were trying to kill her Family, and that justified it slightly. She wouldn't enjoy it, as her siblings obviously were, but she could live with it.

The town's militia was decimated within twenty minutes, no match for Void-creatures or their masters. The demons picked their way through the town, slaying survivors indiscriminately, but other than the occasional scream the sport was in the main street, where the assassins were toying with a few surviving guards.

Ria walked around town, collecting her arrows and putting them back into her quiver. When she had most of them, she circled back around to her Siblings, standing a few feet back in the hopes to avoid being drawn into the action. She thought she was out of the clear when they'd dispatched the final guard, laughing at the expression on his face, but no such luck. The assassins looked around, still under the influence of bloodlust and looking for new prey to hunt. Cirion must have seen something, because he made a motion with his hand and cast a spell, and suddenly a person was hovering in the air perhaps twenty feet away, held in place by telekinesis.

Lucian walked over, plucking the person from the air and forcing him to his knees in front of him. The others moved over, excited for whatever game was in store this time, and Ria followed disinterestedly.

The person wasn't more than a boy, perhaps eleven years old. His eyes were flashing around wildly, but he had nowhere to go. Lucian was grinning wickedly.

"Who should get this one?" he asked them jestingly, and several volunteers voiced their claims. His eyes zeroed in on Ria, though, smile growing wider.

"I think our new Speaker should have the honors." he said, and the others watched her with curiosity and excitement.

Ria's eyes flickered to the boy's begging eyes. "I've had my share of blood today. I wouldn't mind some ale, though." she said, trying not to sound too dismissive.

"Nonsense! Come, I'll make it fun." The Listener said, hauling the boy to his feet and leaning forward to speak into his ear. "Okay, kid. We'll make a deal. If you can get to that gate-" Lucian nodded across town, to the gate closest to Whiterun, "Before I count to three, then you can live. If you don't, my friend here will have the honors of adding your soul to the Dread Father's army." He looked up at that last part, eyes boring into Ria, and she stepped back.

"No, thank you, Listener." she said, knuckles white with her grip on her bow. Lucian was now staring at her pointedly, trying to get some message across, and Ria could guess what it was: that even the Speaker was to obey the Listener.

"I can give him to Lynch, if you prefer." Lucian said, tone only the slightest bit strained. Ria's eyes went to the boy; Lynch didn't get many contracts, so he liked to play with his food when he had the chance.

"No." She said, voice even. She managed a smile. "Let's play the game."

The Listener grinned, suddenly happy again, and promptly let the boy go. He took off, slipping on blood in his haste.

"One." Lucian said, and the boy stumbled over a body and fell to his knees, pulling himself up and continuing on. "Two." The Listener glanced to Ria, stone in his eyes, and she knew she had no choice. She nocked an arrow; the boy was still three houses away from the gate. "Three!"

Ria pulled the bow back and held it, completely numb, and let the arrow fly. It pierced the child through the head, toppling him over on his side. Hoots went up, and Ria gave them a strained smile.

They crossed to the body, Ria in tow, and there was another uproar of amusement as they saw where the arrow had hit; even from behind, the tip stuck out from right in between his eyes. Ria freed the arrow and murmured her prayer. She could still see his glazed-over eyes long after she closed them.

She knew before they even returned to Whiterun that she wouldn't sleep that night. Not that night, and not for many nights after.


	8. Chapter 8 - The Crimson City

**Chapter 8: The Crimson City**

As Tristan's borrowed horse hammered along the stone road that led to Windhelm, he could already tell something was wrong.

The snow obscured his vision, but from the distance he was at he could already make out the fires and the smoke spewing from the City of Ysgramor, mingled with the sound of silent massacre that carried to him on the wind and made his blood turn icy. Tristan spurred the horse on, faster, hoping, praying that he hadn't missed the carnage, praying that he hadn't left the citizens of Windhelm and the refugees of Whiterun for dead.

As he drew closer he began to hear the screams of the people – hoarse and filled with panic - and without even having to be inside the city he knew what enemy they were facing.

Tristan leapt from his horse, the snow softening his landing, and he rolled to his feet, taking off at a sprint up and across the cobblestone bridge that led to Windhelm's main gate.

_Where is everyone? Why aren't the people escaping the city?_

Tristan slammed into the main gate of Windhelm, and forcing a shoulder on it, heaved the massive door open.

The smell of blood and death and ash assaulted Tristan's nostrils, but upon laying his eyes on the city he understood why no one was escaping the city.

_The stubbornness of Nords._

The screams Tristan had heard before weren't screams of terror or of panic, but of war. The battle cries of the residents of Windhelm would have inspired fear in their enemies, but this enemy was like no other. Instead, these cries inspired courage in the fellow man, which explained why the Nords had chosen to fight and not to run.

Tristan was both angered and in awe at what he saw. Every man and woman had taken up arms against the devils and were fighting to defend their homes.

Tristan felt rather than saw a pitch-black body sweep up behind him, and he spun and summoned his Ward. A blade glanced off the magical shield, and the creature unleashed a guttural shriek that nothing of this world could imagine. Tristan winced and ran, weaving in and out of the fighting. He passed bodies of Nords and piles of ash, and amidst all the crying and the blood he knew that he had to find the one man that could get everyone out.

He rounded a corner and immediately stopped. Ahead of him were three of the creatures, barely anything but malice in themselves, and the source of so much of Tristan's current fear. Three pairs of red eyes met his, and the three creatures began to advance with slow, deliberate steps. Black mist formed around their arms and three blades manifested, all sharper than any blade known to mortal men.

Tristan took a shaky breath and summoned his Bound Bow. Once he raised the weapon the devils advanced quicker, and Tristan only let loose one arrow before he had to dispel the weapon and summon his Bound Sword. The arrow glanced off one of the demons bodies and slowed it down, but black mist collected where the arrow struck and Tristan knew it was repairing itself.

The three of them attacked Tristan with sweeps and strikes, and Tristan did all that was in his power to defend and parry each blow. But with each blow Tristan grew more tired, and the creatures showed no signs of fatigue. Tristan parried a strike from one of the devils and buried his sword to the hilt in the chest of the creature. The creature simply looked at him, its head cocked, and Tristan ducked as a blade from another whistled over his head. He yanked the Bound Sword from the creatures chest and put up a Ward as the second demon swung down with an overhead strike. The blade struck the Ward and the devil recoiled, seeming to scream in silence as the dark blade began to crumble. Tristan spun and blocked an attack from the third demon, and he kicked the things legs out from under it, using its own body as a platform to bounce off. He sailed through the air towards the first creature and swung his sword, catching the thing across the throat.

He collapsed to the ground in a heap, and watched as the devil crumpled in on itself. He saw a slight haze around the things dead body and – remembering the prison in Solitude and the attack on Whiterun – summoned a Ward to protect himself. The creature exploded into ash, and whatever was covered instantly began to decay and break down. Stones cracked and blackened and the moss on the walls dried up and died. Only Tristan – protected by his Ward – was spared from the deadly ash. Tristan looked at the devil that had struck his Ward, and saw that it was now nothing but a pile of smoking ash. He panted, wondering as to how that had happened, but through the fog of fatigue he couldn't think of anything.

The creature Tristan had knocked down regained its feet and began its slow walk to the Breton leaning against the wall. Tristan tried to summon a Bound Sword, but he was exhausted, his magicka depleted. He looked at the devil, who looked at him in turn.

"So this is how it ends," Tristan said. He scoffed at the irony. "Figures."

The demon raised its blade. Something whistled through the air and in an instant there was a steel arrow protruding through the creature's skill. Tristan's eyes widened in surprise, and soon there was a firm hand gripping his clothes and hauling him off the ground.

"Come on, Tristan, move!"

Tristan was pushed around the corner, and the sound of the devil exploding caught his ears. He fell back to the ground and looked up at his saviour.

"Commander," Tristan smiled weakly. "If I said I wasn't pleased to see you I'd be lying."

The Commander nodded. "Tristan, it's good to see you too. Glad you came back."

"So the demons are here now?" Tristan asked as the Commander held out a hand to help him up.

"They are," the Commander said grimly. "When the portal opened I tried to tell the High King to evacuate the city, but he didn't listen."

"Where did the portal open?"

"Inside the Palace of Kings, could you believe it. Everyone from Whiterun, as well as some citizens and children from Windhelm evacuated the city. The High King called everyone to fight, and most of the city stayed."

"But you're still here," Tristan pointed out. "I thought you would've gone with the refugees."

"The Companions and I stayed behind to talk some sense into our High King," the Commander said bitterly. "At the very least we're helping defend the city."

"Where are the survivors headed?"

"North," the Commander said. "They've started on a path to Winterhold. Should we win – which I doubt – a runner will be sent to bring them back."

Tristan thought for a while. "What do you need me to do?"

The Commander shook his head. "Nothing, Tristan. You should escape. Run."

It was Tristan's turn to shake no. "Sorry, Commander, but this is where I have to be. I assume the High King is still at the palace?"

The Commander nodded.

"Then that's where I'm headed. Try to kill as many of the demons as you can."

"We can't," the Commander said.

"I know," Tristan replied, conjuring a healing spell to lessen some of his cuts and bruises. "A few of the devils I've fought somehow don't react well to Wards. It does something to them, I just don't know what. And to be honest, it's not something I want to evaluate further."

"Why Wards?"

Tristan shrugged. "Just find whoever can cast Wards and get them to do it. I have a… theory, shall we say. If it's correct then we have a chance at winning."

"We're in the Nord capital of Skyrim, Tristan," the Commander chuckled. "The chances of finding someone who can use _magic _are little-to-none. But I'll try." He shook Tristan's hand. "I'll see you again, friend."

"Aye," Tristan nodded.

The Commander turned on his heel and ran off. Taking a moment to look around, Tristan saw the towers of the Palace of Kings in the sky and ran in that direction, trying to avoid as much battle as he could.

He arrived at the courtyard to the Palace of Kings without too much trouble, but when he arrived he seriously questioned why he decided to return to Windhelm.

The courtyard had been transformed into a breeding ground for death. The stones had been painted crimson by the amount of Nordic blood that had been spilled on them, and piles of ash littered the ground. There was still battles raging in the courtyard, and with each slash of a sword a new victim collapsed to the ground, dead or dying.

Tristan caught his breath, the horror of the sight before him burning itself into his mind. Everything was screaming at him to run, including the Commander, including his dead parents. But he knew in that moment that this courtyard – this relatively small space – could become the rest of Skyrim, the rest of Tamriel.

With new valour, Tristan tried to force out any magicka that may have resided within him, but whatever he had wasn't enough to summon his weapons. Tristan cursed, and began to run towards the Palace of Kings, darting between duels as he did so, eyes glancing at each and every Nord who was fighting to save their home.

He burst through the doors of the Palace of Kings and that's where he saw it. The portal had thrown out its unholy tendrils and was lashed to the walls and – quite ominously – to the throne.

Demons were walking through the portal in twos, and the soldiers in the hall were fighting them back. There were maybe thirty of the demons in the hall, and amidst them was the High King – Ulfric Stormcloak – fighting the creatures with all the animosity that was stapled to his own race.

Tristan knew he couldn't summon a Bound Sword, so instead he picked a steel blade from a body on the ground, saying a silent prayer as he did so, and – trying to get familiar with the weight of the weapon – charged into battle.

He hacked and slashed the devils as he forced a wedge of blood and steel through the fighting, trying as he might to only incapacitate the demons and not kill them so not to unleash the ash. A demon had skewered a Nord, and now had turned to Tristan with its blood-red eyes, its features devoid of every emotion but malice.

It raised the blade on its arm and swung at Tristan, who blocked the strike and went in for a stab. The demon stepped out of the way, and the weight of the steel caused Tristan to stumble. He regained his footing and swung his sword wildly in an arc that caught the demon across the belly, but the demon was undeterred, and came at Tristan again. Tristan stepped back, further and further as the demon hammered blows into him. At last, Tristan saw a gap in the creatures rhythm, and thrust the steel blade into the creatures neck. The creature shuddered and collapsed, and Tristan's eyes went wide as he realised what he'd done.

Summoning whatever magicka he'd regenerated, Tristan threw up a Ward to protect himself from the ash that erupted from the devils' corpse.

The Ward flickered and died, and Tristan took a deep breath before racing headlong into the fighting once more.

The demons were flocking around the High King, paying little attention to the men around him, but they were reluctant to attack. They stood in a circle around him, none seeming bold enough to actually go in for the kill.

_Unless they don't want him dead._

Tristan slashed the legs of a devil and then used its crouching body as a platform – as he'd done not so long ago – to leap over the sea of black and red. He landed without grace, and stumbled into the circle that Ulfric stood in, the tip of his sword darting from target to target.

Ulfric eyed the creatures.

"What are you doing?" He demanded. "Challenge me! I'll take you all on!"

Tristan scrambled to his feet and took a position at Ulfric's back, covering the High King on the side he wasn't facing.

"You're a fool for having come here, Breton," Ulfric said quietly, not at all surprised that Tristan was in this position with him.

"I know," Tristan replied. "It's one of my issues."

One of the demons advanced, and Tristan swung the sword across its chest and then kicked it back into the throng. Two more followed, and both Tristan and Ulfric incapacitated them with speed and fury.

"Why have you come to the Palace?" Ulfric asked.

"I have a theory," Tristan responded, not taking his eyes off the gathered creatures. "If I'm right it can destroy the portal, or at the very least close it."

"At this point I'm open to any ideas," Ulfric said, cutting off the arm of a demon that had strayed to close. He pushed it back into the crowd. "They're coming out faster than we can kill them, and even in death they can still bring us down."

"How many mages do you have in Windhelm?"

Ulfric let out a bark of laughter. "You're in Windhelm, boy. I don't underestimate the usefulness of magic, but we're a warrior city. We have some healers, that is all."

"That's all I need," Tristan said. "Do you have some way of getting them here?"

Ulfric shook his head. "Do I look like I'm in the position to go and collect wizards right now?"

Tristan scolded himself.

_I just hope the Commander thinks to come to the Palace with everyone he's collected._

And then, as if the Divines had heard his prayer, the Commander threw open the doors to the Palace of Kings, four people in tow behind him. Behind them came everyone who had been fighting outside, and they all charged in with their weapons raised.

Tristan suppressed a grin, and Ulfric bellowed his legendary Battle Cry as he charged into the wall of blackness in front of him. Filled with new courage, Tristan followed him, carving his own path through his enemies until he reached the Commander.

"You made it," Tristan panted.

"Aye," the Commander nodded. He gestured to two men in robes beside him. "Artemis and Maximus, two of the healers here at Windhelm."

The men nodded, which Tristan returned.

The Commander gestured to the people on his other side, a man and a woman.

"This is Ingrid, she's a self-taught healer and apothecary, and this is her husband Saul, who knows the basics of Restoration magics – including Wards."

Tristan clasped the Commander's hand. "Thank you."

"Whatever will send this things back to where they came from."

"Ok," Tristan yelled, clapping his hands together. "You four, with me, we're headed straight for that portal."

Tristan turned and ran, his four new soldiers running behind him silently and obediently.

"My King," Tristan called out.

Ulfric brought a demon to the ground and then looked up.

"Get your men to cover us. This won't work if we're dead."

Ulfric nodded and then gestured for some of his men to rally to Tristan.

_I've only got one shot._

"Everyone, get to a different corner of the portal," Tristan said, pointing out the places he wanted the healers to go.

Ulfric's men charged in and began to eradicate the demons still appearing from the portal, in an effort to stop any of them from reaching the spell casters.

"Everyone is going to throw up the strongest Ward they know," Tristan explained. "As far as I can tell, these things don't like touching them. We summon the Wards, and on my signal we begin to walk inward."

He looked to all of the mages, and they all nodded, understanding.

"We need to pull out everything we've got," Tristan continued. "These Wards have to be the strongest we can make them." He braced his feet. "Ready?"

Everyone nodded again.

Tristan searched for the magicka in his own Breton blood.

"One… two… three!"

There was a blast of brilliant white light as the five mages all cast the strongest Wards they could muster. All the Wards connected, weaving together to create one impenetrable wall of radiant magic. Every demon who walked out of the portal touched the Ward and shrieked, quick to move back to where it came.

Tristan saw everyone straining to keep their Ward up, and he knew that he too couldn't continue with this much longer.

"And move in!" Tristan shouted.

Everyone began taking steps inward, the Ward wall getting smaller but more powerful the tighter they got. The Ward wall coated the portal, and the black tendrils anchoring it to this world snapped and lashed about. The portal grew smaller and smaller, and all Tristan could see on the other side were hundreds – no, thousands of red eyes. Filled with anger. Filled with hate.

And just like that, the portal had gone.

Saul was the first to drop his Ward, and Ingrid and Tristan followed quickly. Artemis and Maximus were sweating from the effort, but the two healers looked as if they'd been worse for wear.

"I can't believe that worked," Tristan said to himself, struggling to stay on his own two feet.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around to find himself face-to-face with the Commander.

"You actually did it," he said.

Tristan nodded. "Yeah, I guess I did. With the help of everyone else, of course."

"But it was your idea," the Commander said with slight awe. "How did you know that would work?"

"I didn't." He looked around and noticed that the fighting had stopped. "Where did all the creatures go?"

The Commander looked grim. "They vanished. Disappeared when their portal collapsed."

"Do you think there's a connection?"

"As much as I'd like to think so, I don't think there is. Something tells me they could have stayed here as long as they liked…"

Tristan nodded.

The High King approached the two men and put a hand on Tristan's shoulder.

"I owe a lot to you, Breton," he said evenly. "While I can't offer you anything of monetary value, I can say that you'll always have friends in Windhelm."

"Thank you, Your Highness," Tristan said, bowing politely.

Ulfric turned to a soldier. "Send a courier to collect the refugees. Tell them to come back. We're finally safe."

Tristan cleared his throat. "With all due respect, my King, I think you are far from safe. Those… creatures, they came once, they'll surely do so again."

"And we know how to fight them off," Ulfric said. "We have you to thank for that."

"Sire, hundreds of your citizens are dead or dying. Windhelm can't survive another battle like this."

"We can and we will!" Ulfric bellowed. "You underestimate the strength of Nords."

"And you underestimate your enemy," Tristan said angrily. "We don't know what these things are, as far as we know this was just a small army, a unit. You need to call for aid."

"And who would you suggest we get aid from?" Ulfric countered. "The Empire? We've just won a war against the Empire, there is no chance in Oblivion that they would consider helping Skyrim."

"Maybe if you just negotiated –"

"We're Nords," Ulfric said with finality. "We fight. We don't _talk_."

With that, the High King of Skyrim turned on his heel and walked away.


	9. Chapter 9 - Best Laid Plans

Chapter 9: Best Laid Plans

Ria shoved a wooden sword into the ground at the head of the empty, half-dug grave. For now, it was to serve in the place of a headstone until a proper one could be procured. Jared's body would be arriving in the afternoon, and she'd risen early in the morning to get a start on the grave. It was more work than it looked; even when they were ten years younger and more full of life, it had still taken Jared and Ria the entirety of two days to dig four graves. After the funeral, she was going to bury him herself. They had done it for their parents; she could do it for him.

As the sun reached it's peak in the sky, prompting a break, she drew her daggers, bone-handle knife in one hand, Blade of Woe in the other, and began to dance. She flowed across the ground, spinning and leaping, slashing at opponents that weren't really there and twirling around blows that no one else could see. She was still dancing when Lucian came across her, and for a moment he stopped to observe the odd scene. There was Ria, looking like she was in the fight of her life, without another soul in sight. Behind her were four graves, tombstones slightly worn with time, set in pairs about ten feet apart; in between them was rather large hole in the ground, a wooden sword forming a cross at it's head. To the right of them all about thirty yards was the burned ruins of a building, now only charred timbers fallen in a heap.

Ria stopped when she realized the Listener was there, letting her hands fall to her sides as her chest heaved for breath. They were at the base of the mountains that bordered the Whiterun plains, not far from the Pelagia family farm, making the ground vary in altitude and forcing Lucian down a slight hill to get to her.

"Ria, I thought you should know, we've-" his words were cut short by the blade that rested against the hollow of his neck. His eyes flickered down to the weapon, then back up to the assassin at the other end of it.

"Pull what you did at Riverwood again, Lucian," the knife-tip came up, just barely grazing the Listener's adam's apple before it was pressed into the underside of his chin, "And you can find yourself another damn Speaker. I take contracts, I don't murder kids."

Lucian pushed the knife away with two fingers. "I don't see a difference."

"You wouldn't." The dagger came back up to his chest. "I mean it, Lucian. You want me to be your Speaker, you show me more respect than that."

He held her gaze for a moment before pushing the blade away again. Ria let it dropped, and when Lucian finally nodded, she sheathed it. Another quick glance at him- taking in if he meant it or not- and she was satisfied, turning to pick up a shovel and resume digging earth from the six-foot-long, three-foot-deep hole.

After a stretch of silence followed, Ria asked, "Was it necessary?"

"Ria, let me show you something." The Listener said, circling around to the head of the grave and sitting down next to the wooden sword, feet dangling over the edge of the hole and almost touching the bottom. The half-Imperial stopped her digging to look up.

Lucian was unbuckling the Black Hand from his forearm. When it was free, he tossed it to Ria. She caught it reluctantly, glancing from Lucian to it. The purple gems that lined the gauntlet had changed color slightly, seeming to be tainted black at the centers, the darker color swirling slightly.

Ria tossed it back up to Lucian. "What happened to it?"

The Listener began strapping the gauntlet back on. "They're specialized black soul gems. They all have to be filled for the Hand to perform it's function. Thanks to Riverwood, they are." Lucian finished with the last strapped and looked up. "Every soul we send to the Void adds to the army- is necessary. But Riverwood was even more so."

Ria studied him for a moment. Here he was, trying to comfort her about what had happened, when he was the one who had ordered it in the first place. Perhaps he felt guilty about it, but the more likely scenario was that he saw she felt guilty, and was trying to assuage that feeling. Sociopath though he was, he was her closest surviving friend.

He was also doing horribly as apologies went, but the sentiment was there.

"What did you come out here to tell me?" she asked, resuming digging. As accepting apologies went, it was an abysmal attempt, but the sentiment was there.

There was silence for a minute. "Another Gate." Ria's spade hesitated above the ground, then dug in again. Lucian noted it, but didn't comment, instead continuing, "I tried to find you when Mother gave me the news, but…"

"I was out here. Couldn't sleep." Several shovel-fulls of dirt were emptied from the hole before she asked, "Where?"

"Windhelm."

Ria snorted. "You opened a hellgate in the capital? Tell me how that one works out. Anything else?"

"Yes, actually."

Ria sighed, digging the shovel into the ground and leaning on the handle. "Well, get on with it."

Lucian rolled his eyes dramatically before saying, "After Jared's funeral, we've been invited-" he hesitated, just a second, a marveling look on his face, "To the Void."

Ria blinked up at him, stunned. "The Void? Is that even possible?"

"Oh, ye of little faith. Anything is possible for our Father."

"We'll see."

Lucian shook his head. "We have things to do. Come, our brothers from the Void can finish this."

"They can also take dance lessons from Cicero. Doesn't mean they will."

"Ria-"

"You want to get this done faster, grab a shovel. I'm not leaving before I've got this grave dug."

Ria didn't look up, but there was silence for so long that she thought he'd left. Then he dropped down in the hole next to her, extra shovel in hand.

* * *

The funeral went better than Ria had hoped; everyone behaved themselves, and Lucian said a small speech. Then Babette and Ria told a few stories, and they had the viewing, which Lucian had moved to the end for reasons unknown- though Ria thought it was so she would be more likely to hold herself together through everything else.

She had, until that point; she hadn't shed a tear, and then she walked by the open casket and saw his face, too still, too peaceful, and all she could see was agony in his eyes when Maro ran him through.

That was the end of that, and Lucian sat with her on the top steps of Dragonsreach while the others said their final goodbyes. Coyle, Lynch, Cirion, and Cicero bore the oak coffin through the streets when everything was said and done, and set it in a horse-and-buggy cart that waited in the marketplace. Ria and Lucian climbed in the front, the former taking the reins, and they went back the grave they'd dug earlier. Between the two of them they were able to get Jared's coffin in it and fill the hole back in, and before long they were sitting at the head of the grave, Jared buried, watching the sun set.

The day seemed a blur; everything between digging the grave and sitting where she was now seemed distant, unreal. It was just starting to hit her, that she'd buried her best friend, that he was really and truly gone. It was like being punched in the stomach or thrown on her back, the kind of impact that knocked all the wind from her.

Lucian put a hand on her shoulder for a second, then stood and offered a hand up. "Lets go. We have a meeting to attend."

Ria let him pull her to her feet, taking one last look around. It would be another few years before she would bring herself to come back.

* * *

The assassins gathered in the war room, all of them donning their official red and black Dark Brotherhood armor. Lucian was once again wearing his impressive outfit of black leather armor that matched the Black Hand, the hood thrown down so the gold and onyx circlet could rest on his head. He had the jester at his left side, Ria at his right, and the others gathered behind him. They were in front of the war table, facing the giant double-doors that led out to the Great Porch, waiting on Lucian to do- well, whatever he was planning on doing.

The Listener must have decided it was finally time, because he stretched his left hand out- the one wearing the Black Hand- and pointed his palm towards the doors. Tension entered his body, focus his face, and the purple-black soul gems on the Hand started to glow ethereally. The hairs on the back of Ria's neck stood up, the same feeling as the night in Whiterun, and she knew what was going to happen the second before it did.

The familiar black rift opened in the air, black tendrils extending out and stretching the gate between the ebony pillars that formed. From the gate stepped a Void-creature, which no longer a surprising sight to Ria; she was around them all hours of the day now. It was because of this fledgling familiarity that it took only seconds for her to take in the difference between the thing before her, and the other, 'normal' Void demons.

The first thing was stature; the first thing that came to mind was that it was built like- of all things- an assassin, slim enough to graceful and just muscled enough to be solid. The second thing was it's eyes. They were solid red, like its fellows, but somehow intelligent, intense. She could see those eyes flickering everywhere, an unsettling thing on something that had no pupils or irises.

The third difference, and the most obvious one, was that it's left hand was severed about three inches below the elbow.

For some reason, Ria's eyes darted to the Black Hand as Lucian finally lowered said limb, back ramrod straight. He inclined his head politely.

"Welcome to Whiterun, Brother."

The creature's eyes darted to the assassin and stayed there. It had no mouth, so Ria jumped nearly out of her skin when she heard it speak- it's voice echoing from inside her head.

"We've been expecting you, Listener." It said, voice raspy- almost like the Black Door, but too deep to be an exact match.

"I know." Lucian said smoothly.

The Void-creature swept it's eyes over the gathered assassins. "Honored Keeper." it said, inclining it's head respectfully toward Cicero, as Lucian had done for it. It's eyes skipped over to Ria, nodding to her as well. "Speaker."

"Come. The portal won't stay open long." Lucian said.

The creature nodded, turned on it's heels, and stepped back through the lightless rift, it's form swallowed by darkness. Lucian took a step forward to follow it, the two Imperials staying at his side. He turned his head to look at Ria, smiling that wicked, predatory smile of his, and took another step, disappearing through the black, gate-like structure.

There was really no option but to follow him.

Once on the other side, Ria stood where she was, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. Eyesight for the moment useless, it was only logic that made the assassin think she still possessed any of her other senses; there were no sounds, no breeze, no smell. It was empty, emptier than anything natural could be, and it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

The slow return of her sight only slightly assuaged the feeling. It wasn't as black as she had originally thought the Void was; there was light, dim but there. It glowed from a purple ethereal mist that hung over the ground and floated in random currents through the air, reminding her for all the world of the color that swirled through the Black Hand's soul gems. In the distance, stars twinkled, though their placements threw Ria; they were grouped closer to the ground, most not making it more than what she guessed was twenty feet above the horizon.

In this dim light, the half-Imperial could start to make out buildings, most in ruins, some still in the process of crumbling. Both the buildings and street were made out of a material that resembled ebony, black with a metal-like shine, though something about it- maybe the smoothness, maybe the sheer, impossibly dark color- set it apart. Ria turned in a circle, looking over her Brothers and Sisters to take in just how many structures there were; it took only seconds to realize they were in a city of some sort. The universe's most unsettling city, perhaps, with it's cold black surface and silent, eerie streets, but that was undeniably what it was.

That in itself begged a series of questions, but what came out of Ria's mouth was, "Stars in the Void?"

There was a heartbeat of silence before Lucian replied, "Those aren't stars."

"Then what-" Ria clamped her jaw set mid-sentence. There weren't many options of what could be in the Void. She glanced towards the horizon again, wondering if Jared was among those glowing dots of silver. "What is this place?

"The Black City. The Conduit can safely exist no other place in the Void."

"The Conduit? Is that the name of Stumpy up there?" Ria asked, nodding to the Void-demon in front of Lucian, forgetting that the Listener couldn't see the gesture in the dim lighting. His lack of eyesight didn't keep him from landing an elbow to her ribs.

"Show some respect." he hissed.

"Then explain what this Conduit is to deserve it." Ria growled back; there were very few things that commanded her instant respect, and another Void-dweller was not one of them.

The Conduit lurched into motion, a black form moving through the Black City. If she hadn't known where he was when he'd moved, she wouldn't be able to see him; his light-negating skin was the perfect camouflage in the Void, and all it would take was stillness for someone to walk right by him, never even aware of his presence.

Lucian followed on his heels, and Ria followed him. The dim light just barely caught the gold band of his circlet, giving her a beacon to stick with. As what were probably the first living mortals in the Void stalked their way through the streets of the Black City, the Listener heeded the half-breed's request, his voice the only sound audible in the nearly-blank plain of existence.

"None of the lore I've come across has ever given it another name. Some say it is the soul of Airdrie Stronach, the Night Mother's eldest, but regardless, it is the Conduit, the manifestation and liaison of the Dread Father. Once it steps foot on the earth of Nirn. It's the only thing that can both call forth the full extent of Father's army, and afterwards pull the rest of the Void into our plain."

"So why the city? You said the Conduit needed it."

"As it can appear in our world, something of our world must appear with it. It is forever linked to Nirn by the Hand. I don't know if it would survive being unlinked, or if it could avoid destruction if it didn't have even a twisted piece of Nirn around it."

Ahead, the Conduit turned into a building, though Ria wasn't completely sure if he actually had or if he'd just magically disappeared. But then Lucian turned as well, and she knew she had four walls around her because the light from the- she was going to call them *stars*, because the alternative was uncomfortable- had dimmed considerably.

From then on, it was really just a slightly odd strategy meeting. The Conduit did something, and the room was suddenly illuminated in purple by odd glowing gems set into the wall. For the most part, she kept silent, letting the two demons hash it out, throwing in her ideas when they were asked for or needed.

Hours passed before they were done, and Ria was starting to nod off. Images danced through her mind, half-dreams that she wouldn't remember when she woke.

Lucian's chair scraped back as he stood, jolting the half-Imperial awake. The others, long since bored and lounging around the room, stood as well, eager to do something. Ria pushed herself to her feet, running a hand through her hair.

Lucian was talking to the Conduit, trying not to yawn himself. "We'll do this again after we have Skyrim. It's time we returned to Nirn."

"I will go as well." The Conduit said. "There are more details that needs to be relayed to you." It's red eyes flickered over the Listener's shoulders, to the Family. "And you only."

Lucian nodded. "Very well. Would you do the honors of opening a portal?"

"I will. But you need to add more souls to the army. Tearing into Nirn from this side drains our numbers."

"The gate in Windhelm should replenish your losses just fine." Annoyance was starting to creep into the Listener's voice; he was more tired than he was letting on.

"The gate in the capitol has been closed."

The lighting gave Ria a perfect view of the shock that rippled across Lucian's face, and she decided the 'I told you so' could wait until later. Lucian recovered in seconds, though a muscle worked in his jaw. "We will have to take that into further consideration, then. Conduit, a portal, please."

The creature nodded, made a motion with it's hand, and a rift appeared in the wall to her left, spreading into the usual gate. Unlike in Nirn, where it was pitch-black, here light poured in, almost blinding after so long in dimness. When her eyes had adjusted, she could see Dragonsreach's war room, instantly longing for it's warmth; the Void wasn't so much cold as it was absent of temperature, and putting some heat back in her bones seemed a luxurious prospect.

Lucian went through first, though Ria was only a half-step behind him. The slight warmth of the palace was a stark change, and the gentle light was familiar, welcoming. It instantly dispelled the unease that had dogged her in the Void.

When everyone else was gathered behind her, and the portal starting to close, she stretched and said, "I'm going to bed, and I'd advise the rest of you to do the same."

Mumbles of consent were few and far between; some of the others had been napping during Lucian's meeting, as Ria had, and were still groggy, though Babette looked only more alert as the night passed. Still, protests were non-existent, and even Seba was to tired to do anything but shamble off down the stairs.

Ria glanced to Lucian. " At least try to be in bed before dawn."

"I'll attempt it." He said with a wry smile, promising nothing.

The half-Imperial trudged to her room, flopping down on top of the covers. She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

* * *

Ria was jerked awake by a nightmare. Voices floated down the hallway, distant and almost inaudible, but there nonetheless. She had no way of knowing how long she'd been asleep, but Lucian was obviously still awake, so she stumbled to her door, planning on using ordering the Listener to bed as a distraction from the lingering images of her dream. Ria stalked down the hall silently, listening to the voices grow in volume, now able to make out words. She froze when she heard Lucian's next words.

"We should tell them!" he nearly shouted, clearly angry.

"It is not necessary. Already the invasion has their loyalties wavering. This could turn some of them against us, and they know too much for that to be allowed."

Ria crouched where she was, taking shallow breaths so as not to be heard. She had spent enough time sneaking around other people's houses to recognize when a conversation held information important to her.

Ria heard Lucian's fist come down on the wood table. " I know my people! They will understand. You have to die to become truly part of the Void. So what? When we have won this war, the Void will be the only world left to them. Even those who fear death would be willing to let go of their mortal bodies to become rulers of New Nirn. If we explain that, give them time to come to terms, they will only fight harder for that future."

Crouched just down the hall from them, Ria's heart was thundering in her chest, beating so loud she was sure one of them had to hear it. Her stomach was in knots, her mind a whirlwind of thought. Lucian had promised they had nothing to fear, had promised they'd be kings and queens, and all the while he knew that they would die as well. All they had done and were planning to do for their Listener, and he was going to let them be executed after they expended their usefulness. Betrayal didn't begin to describe it.

"These orders are not appealable. If you disobey them, you disrespect the Night Mother and defy your Dread Father. Their decision is final. There is no lenience for rebellion in this situation."

The silence was tense. Even without seeing him, Ria could sense her friend's anger, knew the look that must be on his face. When he spoke, his voice was soft, and deadly.

"I would give my life before I would commit such sacrilege. It is only for the sake of my Mother and Father that you still stand after that implication. You are misinformed, both on the hearts of my Family and the extent I would take my disagreement to." There was another stretch of silence. "You have nothing to tell me that Mother could not. Get out."

The floorboards creaked as the Conduit shifted it's weight, and after a second the hairs on the back of Ria's neck rose, telling her a black gate had opened. There was silence for so long that Ria knew the creature had gone back to it's place of origin, long enough for the portal to have closed behind it, but Lucian didn't move for several minutes. When she heard his footsteps, light and inaudible to anyone not listening for them, she straightened and continued down the hall as though she'd heard nothing, an automatic response that wasn't hindered by the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

She rounded the corner and ran literally right into Lucian, making them both stumble. When they regained their footing and straightened, the Listener looked amused.

"If you want to trample me, you're going to have to try harder."

Ria plastered a haughty look on her face. "I just might. Do you know what time it is? I told you you should go to bed."

"Kings don't need to bedtimes."

"Good thing you're not a king."

Lucian laughed, strolling down the hallway she had just came from, and Ria walked with him, trying to match this Lucian, who laughed and jested with her, to the sociopath that wanted all of them dead when the invasion was over. "Not yet, maybe, but soon. I think I'd like to walk into the Palace of the Kings with my impressive Void army and take the throne from Ulfric. Like something out of a legend."

*This entire thing is out of a legend. The kind where little kids get eaten by monsters and gods throw temper-tantrums*, Ria thought.

"That would be an interesting sight." She replied, letting on to none of her thoughts. They came to the door to her room, and she put her hand on it, eager to get inside; she needed to pack her things, get out of the area as soon as possible. There were very few things worth her life, and this, an invasion that forced her to kill innocents and children and didn't even allow her to live through it, was low on that list.

At the start of this morning, though, Lucian had topped that list, and her stomach clenched. Her last true friend, and she was losing him as well; it was unlikely they would ever meet again, unless he came to kill her himself. The familiar wave of loneliness and emptiness washed over her, but she had too much experience with it now for it to do much more than make her glance over her shoulder at the Listener.

"You need to learn to take better care of yourself, Lucian." It was the closest she was getting to the goodbye she actually wanted to say. She hoped the thickening of her voice could be perceived as someone who was close to yawning instead of tears.

Lucian leaned on the doorway, inches away, smiling mockingly. "I'll take it in to consideration. Goodnight, Ria."

And then, in a shock to them both, he leaned forward, stopping himself an inch short of their lips touching.

Surprise and fear flashed across his face at his own actions, but there was no reversing them. It had been automatic, autopilot, something that logic probably usually caught. But sleep deprivation had turned logic off, just for that second, and now he was staring at her with those nearly-black eyes like a petrified puppy, waiting for her to make the next move. Her heartbeat soared through the roof instantly, higher by far than it had been in the hallway.

Ria's own logic slowed to a crawl as she double-guessed all her earlier decisions. What was wrong with having something to die for, a cause to be dedicated to? At least she would come out on top in the next world. At least she would have Lucian and the Family with her for all of it. When she'd finally made up her mind, she took her outside hand and placed it on Lucian's cheek, a tender gesture that made relief flood his face.

Then she slammed his head into the wall.

She caught the Listener's unconscious body before it could hit the floor, staggering under his weight, and dragged him into her room and dumped him on the bed. She grabbed her knapsack, unceremoniously shoving things into it; a set of regular clothes, a half-full canteen, her entire supply of Septims and what other jewels would fit, and both her and Jared's journals. She was packed and slipping out of the room in just under three minutes.

Ria paused at the door, looking back to Lucian. If she stayed now, she could apologize, play it off as panic. He couldn't deny that he'd caught her off guard. Her life here was still salvageable.

The problem was that there was no life here, not really. She couldn't murder her way through gods know how many innocents when it wouldn't gain her anything. She couldn't serve a cause knowing Lucian would betray her when it was completed. In this case, death wasn't nearly as scary as the time between now and whenever that date was, because she would have to live with herself during that time.

She was down the stairs and out the doors at a full sprint. The ever-present Void creatures paid her no mind; as far as they were concerned, she was on their side. Her mind was spinning as she jumped on a horse and set them off at a gallop, headed east, trying to think of where she could go. They would hunt her, that was certain. She needed a fortress.

Ria's gaze wandered up to the Throat of the World, always towering over the plains. A plan started to form; if she could get through Ivarstead and started up the steps before dawn, before witnesses were up, she could slip up to High Hrothgar undetected. She would have to be quick to make the journey, push her horse farther than was kind. The thought occurred to her that she would have to leave it somewhere away from Ivarstead; High Hrothgar had no place to keep a horse, and an unclaimed one showing up, saddled, in the town would be a clue to anyone tracking her.

Ria did the math. If she abandoned it at Valtheim Towers, the bandits would likely claim it, or anyone following would think it was theres. She would have to run the rest of the way- and run hard, if she wanted to make it before dawn as she needed to. It was going to be hard, but possible.

High Hrothgar was the perfect sanctuary: secluded, defended by weather and elevation, and with Voice-wielding men lining it's halls. She would get in somehow, with half-acted crying and begging if nothing else.

Then she would hunker down until all this craziness passed, and hope trouble didn't find her.


	10. Chapter 10 - High Hrothgar

**Chapter 10: High Hrothgar**

Tristan stood on a balcony outside the Palace of Kings, contently sipping an ale as he watched the lights in the sky make their nightly venture from horizon to horizon.

The noise from inside the palace drifted up to him, even through the thick doors and even thicker walls.

They were celebrating their victory and mourning those they had lost in the only way Nords knew how: drinking to the victory, and even more drinking to the dead. It was largely a celebration of life, both in this world and the next, with Ulfric leading the sermon of how their brothers and sisters in arms would find their rightful place in Sovngarde.

Tristan was a guest of honour, but after some time of receiving pats on the back, slugs on the arm and handshakes from all manners of people, he shied away from the party and instead found himself on one of the few balconies that presented themselves from the palace.

After some time, Tristan's solitude was disrupted when he heard the creaking hinges of the door opening behind him.

Without turning, Tristan heard the heavy, stumbling footfalls of someone making their way to him. He smelt the alcohol of the body that was now leaning on the railing of the balcony beside him.

"The Throat of the World…" the person slurred.

Tristan's eyes drifted toward the massive mountain that seemed to conquer the heights of the very sky. The Throat of the World was Tamriel's tallest mountain, rivalled by none but perhaps the Red Mountain that presided over neighbouring Morrowind.

Tristan looked across at his company, his eyes falling upon the drunken and somewhat dishevelled Commander of the Guard at Whiterun.

"People miss you in there Tristan," the Commander spoke again. "Some women seemed plenty interested in your whereabouts."

Tristan almost chuckled. "I'm sure they'll find me when I go back."

"Aye," the Commander took a sip from his beverage. "What're you doing out here anyway, friend?"

"Thought I'd catch the lights," Tristan said, gesturing to the neon colours streaking across the sky. "And I needed time alone with my thoughts."

"Thoughts?" the Commander questioned. "Ah, yes, you're a Breton. You have those."

Tristan gave a weak laugh at the Commander's drunken humour.

"What is it you're thinking about?"

"Our High King," Tristan said slowly. "He fought back this enemy and believes he can do so again, but I'm of a different belief. Just because he won the battle doesn't mean he'll win the war. His pride and stubbornness stops him from asking help from the Empire. If the battle today was just a small force… Skyrim is doomed."

"Agreed," the Commander had become suddenly serious. "This threat is… worse than anything I've seen in my life, or anything I've heard in tales or read in stories. I'm afraid that the strength of Man alone won't be enough to save the world from this crisis."

Tristan found himself unable to reply to the Commander's words, simply because he believed them. Even the Oblivion crisis hadn't been as drastic as this had been, from what he'd been told. But there were still so many questions, one of which was _who _this enemy was.

"The Greybeards…" the Commander muttered, bringing Tristan back to the present.

"I'm sorry?" Tristan asked.

"The Greybeards," the Commander repeated, his eyes full of mystery as he gazed at the Throat of the World. "They reside in High Hrothgar, atop the Throat of the World."

"I've heard the stories," Tristan said.

"They're more than just stories, friend," the Commander chuckled. "The Greybeards are an order that have existed for eons. They hold an almighty power – the Thu'um, the Voice. Dragon language. If anyone can help us win this war… it's them…"

Tristan shook his head. "I can't count on a group of monks to protect us."

"Those _monks _possess a power beyond any other form of magic," the Commander said stubbornly.

"Are you sure they will help us?"

"No," he said truthfully. "But where is the honour in not trying?"

Tristan mulled over his words. "And what of the Empire? If we're to fight this enemy we need the armies of a united Tamriel."

The Commander laughed as if Tristan had just told a hilarious. He offered little more than a confused look.

"You speak of the Empire as if they hold no more prudence towards Skyrim," the Commander explained. "Now, I don't know for sure, but I would be willing to wager that the Empire still has a presence in Skyrim. And it would have only gotten stronger since the Emperor was murdered within her borders."

Tristan mulled this information over. While the thought of the Empire still running in secret within Skyrim wasn't a new idea to him, he'd staved off the thought as false hope. But as he thought of it, he wondered why he believed so. It made perfect sense that the Empire would keep a close eye on Skyrim. The province and its people were hardy and formidable, and since the death of the Emperor diplomatic relations between Cyrodiil and Skyrim must be at risk of collapse – just another reason for the Empire to donate more men and women to operating within the cold norths' borders.

"But let us not speak of such sombre drabble," the Captain said, returning to his drunken, jovial mood. "Tonight is one of celebration. Come in, Tristan, drink, laugh, do _something _other than stand on this balcony and fret about the future."

Tristan offered the Captain a reassuring smile. "I'll be in shortly. Find those women for me."

The Captain bellowed a laugh and then winked at him, turning on his heel and stumbling back into the party.

_That will keep him occupied for a while, _Tristan thought.

He looked towards the Throat of the World once more, and as he looked be thought he could make out the spire of some great fortress atop the mountain.

_The Greybeards._

Maybe?

_Where is the honour in not trying?_

The Captain was right.

Tristan decided then, tomorrow he'd make for High Hrothgar.

* * *

The sight of a city full of hung-over Nords the following morning was enough to make Tristan laugh for the rest of his life.

_If there's one thing the Nords are known for other than their ferocity in battle, _Tristan thought with a grin, _it's their drinking habits._

He himself had drunk more than he cared to admit, but the magic in his Breton blood had made quick work of destroying whatever alcohol that had found its way into his better judgement. He was – much to the Captain's envy and disgust – fresh as a daisy.

The Captain himself was holed up discussing plans with Ulfric about the citizens of Whiterun, namely what it is they could do to assist the city as the recent massacre had left some shops low on workers. Hopefully they'd iron our the details concerning some semi-permanent housing, rations, and so on until they could return to their home. _If _they could return to their home.

The horrors of Whiterun and now Windhelm still burned fresh in Tristan's mind, and while Skyrim continued to operate as if it were beyond the crisis' reach, he knew as much as anyone that the people around him were suppressing their fear and anguish, that they were looking for the menial structure that would bring them through another day. And that is where Ulfric was a worthy High King.

Despite his arrogance and pride, Ulfric recognized and addressed the needs of his people. While he was talking with the Captain he'd divided the city into thirds, and sent each group to finish a different task, be it reconstruction, cooking, or even agriculture (a farm in this part of Skyrim had surprised Tristan).

Tristan tried to keep a low profile as he left the city, but regardless a handful of people stopped him to give him thanks. He'd learned the previous night that waving off the thanks of Nords was nigh on impossible to do, so he accepted the gesture with a polite nod before he continued on his way.

Before long he'd picked his way through Windhelm, and he was outside of the city, clutching the reigns of a hardy Skyrim-bred horse. Tristan had told Ulfric at the celebration that he would make his leave the following morning, though he kept the details secretive so as not to damage the High King's pride. Ulfric had said that a horse would be organised for him free of charge, and Tristan could say that even the High King in his drunken state was a man of his word.

"Her name's Ahnwyn," the stable hand said, patting the horse.

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "Not a very Nordic name," he observed.

The stable hand chuckled. "You're right. It's elvish, if anything. Such a beautiful creature isn't fit for the harsh names of our race."

Tristan was mildly surprised to hear the stable hand say the words, however as he looked the steed up and down he could understand why he had. The horse was rugged and hardy like all of Skyrim's steeds, but it had a certain elegance to it, a graceful quality that Tristan couldn't quite pick out.

"She's all yours," the stable hand said.

Tristan nodded his thanks, and slowly led Ahnwynn out into the frosty air. The horse was unfazed by the climate, something that didn't extend to Tristan.

The Breton strapped the little belongings he had and the rations he'd been given to Ahnwynn's saddle, and with a grunt of effort hoisted himself up into it himself.

Ahnwynn's ears perked up at having a new rider. She turned her head somewhat so that she could get a good look at Tristan. Her gaze flitted up and down his form, and after assessing him she seemed to reach a conclusion – she knocked her hoof once on the cobblestone.

"She likes you," the stable hand grinned.

"That's a relief," Tristan said, scratching Ahnwynn between the ears.

"Here," the stable hand offered Tristan a sack. "Carrots for the road. She loves them."

"Carrots, eh?" Tristan asked absently. He took one from the sack and leaned over, holding it in front of Ahnwynn's nose. She sniffed the food before wrapping her tongue around it and swallowing it without so much as chewing.

He tied the sack back up and put it with the rest of the food, making sure it wouldn't fall off on the journey.

"Tell Ulfric I said thank you," Tristan told the stable hand.

"Aye, it will be done," he replied.

Tristan inclined his head in thanks, and with a whip of the reigns, Ahnwynn took off toward the Throat of the World at a canter.

* * *

Tristan made camp that night, and upon studying the map of Skyrim he figured he'd arrive in Ivarstead the day after tomorrow. He'd leave Ahnwynn with a farmer, and from there he'd make the trek up the Throat of the World, climbing the legendary seven thousand steps that led to the monastery of High Hrothgar.

On the whole they'd made good time. Ahnwynn was a powerful horse, and what she lacked in speed she made up for in endurance. She was able to keep at her cantering pace for the entire day, with only one rest that both she and Tristan had taken to eat lunch. She nuzzled him now, and Tristan absently fed her a carrot as he made calculations and plans in his head.

A breaking branch brought Tristan back to reality. He looked up, taking in what he could from the little light that the fire cast. Then he saw it.

Just on the edges of the light a figure clad in fur stood crouched, looking out into the darkness at something Tristan couldn't see.

Tristan's fingers began their instinctive dance of weaving and threading magicka about his palm, ready to summon a sword and attack should the situation demand it. He cleared his throat loudly, and the figure turned to face him.

It was a Dunmer – a Dark Elf – and he looked as if he'd seen too many fights. He had the composure of a criminal, and the glint in his eyes obviously said that he was up to no good.

"You'll do," the Dunmer mumbled. He unslung a bow of some kind from his back and placed in on the ground not far from where Tristan was sitting.

"Take this bow," the Dunmer said. "Don't tell anyone you have it, don't tell anyone I gave it to you. I'll be coming back for it. If you rat me out, I'll find you, and I _will _kill you."

He let the words hang in the air for some moments before he turned and ran into the night.

Tristan was speechless for some moments, but after a while the hairs on the back of his neck lay down and he was at ease. He shuffled closer to the bow and picked it up, inspecting it closely. It didn't look like anything special, just plain and wooden, but he could feel the light throb of magic coming from it, and the wood itself was warm to touch.

"A fire enchantment…" Tristan thought aloud.

He'd be willing to wager that the bow hadn't belonged to the Dunmer. But if it didn't belong to him, then to whom did it belong?

Tristan looked over the woodwork of the bow to see if he could find any signs of ownership, or any clue as to where the bow may have been made, but he found nothing. It was then that he felt a faint, barely noticeable tug on the body of the bow.

If he hadn't been holding it he wouldn't have noticed, but the tug was all Tristan needed to deduce that the bow would find its way back to its owner. Tristan knew this because the ethereal tug was the sign of a Trace enchantment. It was something Tristan had heard of from his parents when they said that their friends in High Rock would cast Trace upon their children. The spell was deceptively simple, and ensured that the caster would be able to find whatever they had cast it on by following the magical trail the spell would leave.

With that discovery, Tristan wrapped the bow in a spare cloth and buried it under a few inches of dirt nearby, hopeful that whoever the bow belonged to would be able to find it.

* * *

The remainder of the venture was uneventful. Aside from the occasional wolf or bandit that tried to make away with his belongings, Tristan found the ride rather peaceful. And as he'd predicted, on the third day of travel at about noon, the small village of Ivarstead came into view.

If the Throat of the World was large anywhere else in Skyrim, it was positively massive now. One couldn't walk in a circle without falling into the mountains' shadow, and the to Tristan – who was travelling towards the mountain – his destination may as well have been a wall of frost and stone.

A few hours passed, and Tristan was amidst the houses of Ivarstead. With what little gold he had he rented a room at the local inn and paid a farmer to take care of Ahnwynn for a few days.

The atmosphere of the inn itself was dangerously sombre – not at all what Tristan was accustomed to having grown up among the rabble and noise of most of Skyrim's inns. It was also relatively empty, with only someone behind the bar and a trio of cloaked people warming around the fire burning in the stone pit at the centre of the inn. They exchanged few words, and the words they did exchange were spoken so low that Tristan couldn't pick them up.

Instead he headed straight for the bar, ate a humble meal of goats' cheese and bread, and retired to his rented room, intent on beginning the climb to the monastery atop the mountain as soon as he was rested.

* * *

No sooner was the sun peaking its head over the landscape the following day, Tristan was up and ready to climb the seven thousand steps, hoping that his journey wouldn't be in vain.

He was at the base of the Throat of the World, and while the orange light was bouncing off the mountain in beautiful ways the common Skyrim chill was beginning to rattle Tristan's bones already.

He cast a fur cloak about his shoulders and took a deep breath.

"No backing out now," he said to himself, and with great effort he took the first step. "Only six-thousand nine-hundred and ninety-nine to go…"

The climb was gruelling, both physically and mentally, and with every step he began to understand more and more why the Nords made this climb as a form of pilgrimage. On this mountain the peace of Skyrim was left behind. Every possible force was working against Tristan, be it the wind, the snow, or the wolves that made their burrows up in the harrowing cold. After what felt like hours of climbing Tristan looked up, and with a heavy spirit saw that there was no foreseeable end.

"These Greybeards really must hate visitors," Tristan said, shaking his head in disbelief. "How'd they even build a fortress up here anyway?"

With that thought in his mind, Tristan continued climbing, trying to ignore what seemed to be every fibre of reality working against him, trying to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

Until, after what seemed like an era, flat ground. Tristan's foot sank into snow with no stone beneath it. Tristan's eyebrows shot up, and with a feeling of triumph he glanced upward, but frowned at what he saw.

In front of him wasn't a fortress, but just a plateau that led further along the mountain, rocks jutting upwards and curving like spines into a makeshift, unfinished tunnel.

But that wasn't what caught him off guard.

What surprised him was the dark patch of red that was so obviously out of place on the white blanket of the mountain. He crept up to the patch and crouched down, lightly touching it and bringing the residue to his nose, smelling.

Blood.

Well, of course it was blood, he thought gingerly. But the question was _whose _blood?

The pool wasn't old, perhaps a few days at most, and the only reason he saw it was the shielding the tunnel gave from the weather. Tristan peeled his eyes, and upon further investigation he noticed the trail that lead away from the patch. Red spots that led away along the path, until it reached the edge of the tunnel where Tristan surely knew it had been covered by snow.

His fatigue was suddenly gone, and Tristan kept walking the path, alert to whatever danger may have been present. There was a good chance that the blood belonged to just another wolf, but Tristan didn't know wolves could bleed so much. Regardless of whether the mystery beast was dead or not, he wasn't taking any chances.

As it turned out he didn't have to walk far. A few hundred steps ahead of him he was hit by the stench, and a few more steps after that brought him to the source.

It was a dead frost troll.

* * *

It didn't take long after that for Tristan to reach High Hrothgar, and immediately after turning the final corner he cursed and bent over for breath, angry that the only air he could get was thin and cold.

"Seven thousand steps…" he puffed. "Never… again…"

He then stood upright, casting eyes upon the dark-stoned monastery in front of him. He realized that the word monastery was modest, as fortress would more accurately describe the layout of High Hrothgar.

It was a huge castle, with turrets at all four corners of the building. The structure was almost menacing in its height and majesty, and Tristan found it difficult to believe that the only people who lived up here were men who preached peace.

Part of Tristan died when he saw the few steps that led to the main doors, and he was seriously considering leaping off the Throat of the World and too his demise in opposed to having to climb them. But climb them he did.

He bashed his fist on the heavy iron door, and without waiting for anyone to usher him in he heaved them open and stepped into a chamber lit only by the torches on the walls. Walking into High Hrothgar was almost like walking from Skyrim into Hammerfell. While the difference in temperature mustn't have been too different, inside the monastery felt like a bonfire compared to the unforgiving winds that were just outside.

To his surprise, one of the Greybeards was waiting in the centre of the chamber. The man looked humble in appearance, and was covered head to toe in a robe. Sticking out from the shadow that was cast upon the monks face was an unkempt, grey beard. Tristan nodded in approval.

"I thought another might come this far," the Greybeard said. "I am Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards."

_Another? _

Tristan bowed politely. "I am Tristan Dorrien. I come from Windhelm, I seek your aid."

"Yes, I assumed as much," Arngeir said slowly. "We know of your… situation down amongst the cities."

"Then you know that in order to prevent chaos we require help," Tristan said eagerly. "I have come here against all orders to ask for your assistance to defeat this unknown enemy. I've heard the stories. The Greybeards are said to wield a mighty power, a power beyond any magic that even the greatest of mages can conjure. The Voice. Dragon language."

Arngeir listened patiently. "You are right to assume we hold such great power, however our creed and the very foundations of our order forbid us from using it for the means of a darker path."

Tristan visibly deflated. "You can't be serious?" He said, dumbfounded. "To turn your back on us is to leave us to our doom. We need everything we can get to fight these things! If you stay up here in your tower and let us burn then you are no better than them! Our world is the prisoner, and you are the executioner."

Arngeir clenched his teeth. "I would advise you to treat us with more respect," he said slowly. "The first one came here seeking solitude, and that is something we gladly gift, however what you are asking of us is too much. We would be defying the rules and customs of those who came before us, and as such we refuse our service," he explained. "Your journey was long and perilous, so I invite you to stay for tonight in order to regain your strength, but tomorrow I think it would be in your best interest to leave this place, hm?"

Tristan knew that Arngeir offered a threat, and while its execution would mean him defying his own rules Tristan wasn't in a position to test the water.

Tristan bowed again. "I apologize for my rudeness," he said.

Arngeir waved the apology away and began to walk.

"If you don't mind me asking, who came here before?" Tristan piped up.

Arngeir turned and opened his mouth to speak, but he didn't have to.

A person stepped from the around the corner and laid eyes on Tristan.

Tristan stepped back, startled, but soon he scowled.

It was her.

The person he'd shared a prison with.

The assassin who'd tried to seal his feat.

Tristan growled.

The woman went to raise her arms but he lashed out, he conjured a dagger and hurled it at her. She dodged the ethereal blade easily, but Tristan went at her again, charging with a Bound Sword raised high above his head.

The woman drew her own daggers and blocked Tristan's overhead blow. It was sloppy, and he knew it. He kept up his assault with more blows, one after the other in a continuous onslaught of magic on metal, but the woman matched his stamina and deflected all of his attacks.

"Wait!" She tried to speak, but the words were lost on Tristan.

With a shout he went at her again, all sense of strategy in his attack fading instantly to nothing.

"_ENOUGH!"_

A powerful voice shook the chamber, snapping Tristan out of his rage. The Bound Sword vanished back into Oblivion, leaving him weaponless.

The woman looked reluctant to sheath her blades, but upon looking at the fuming monk near her she did so.

"How dare you…" Arngeir said softly. "How dare you come to this place of peace and bring with you hatred and violence? I refuse to play host to your tainted souls. You both must leave."

Tristan inwardly cursed.

The assassin looked slightly panicked and made to open her mouth to speak.

"Now!" Arngeir shouted, cutting her off before she could begin.

She closed her mouth tightly and nodded, briskly barging past Tristan and exiting. Tristan cursed himself for his rashness and bowed once more to Arngeir, before he turned on his heel and, too, left.


	11. Chapter 11 - Hunters and Hunted

**Chapter 11: Hunters and Hunted**

Ria had never ran so much in her life.

She had forgotten just how much distance separated the Valtheim Towers and Ivarstead- and how much distance separates Ivarstead from High Hrothgar. She walked when her lungs would no longer allow for anything faster, but for the most part, she jogged along the rode, often for miles at a time. She didn't have to pretend to be pitiful and half-dead when she finally made it to the door of the fort-like monastery.

She must have looked quite the sight, drops of sweat frozen on her face, shivering incessantly, covered in blood from the frost troll that she had been unable to sneak past like she had the wolves. She had abandoned her horse a few hours before dawn, arriving just after the following sunset, and the full day of constant movement had exhausted her more than she knew she could be; it was a wonder that she had had the strength left to push the massive door open.

The monks could see plainly that she was in no shape to be turned out into the cold again, even with her Brotherhood leathers still plain to see- she'd been too tired to think to change before she climbed the mountain. She wasn't really sure which came first, getting to the Greybeard's bed or unconsciousness, but either way, that was where she was when she woke up.

One of the soft-spoken men was at her bedside when she sat up, momentarily disoriented by the room. His beard- the only hair she could see- was a stark white, and looking at the wrinkled expanse of his face, she wouldn't even begin to try and guess his age. Cicero was old enough to be her grandfather; this man had to be old enough to be his father. Still, his eyes were clear and sharp, younger than the rest of him by far.

"I know you have only just woken, child, and I don't mean to be insensitive." He said gently. "But I must ask why one of your order has come to these halls."

The man's eyes flickered to her assassin's leathers, the tell-tale red and black, caution mixing with a number of other things.

All the way up the mountain, Ria had distracted herself with how she would answer that exact question, rehearsed the words that would give the impression of a lost soul looking for meditation and enlightenment. Now, though, she was weak and barely awake and so tired, and what came out of her mouth was the partial truth.

"Safety. Solitude. Whatever you want to call it." Ria shut her eyes, thinking that she needed to find another way of saying this that didn't make it sound like she was planning on hiding here, even though she was. "As long as I can be away from the world."

The monk said nothing, merely studied her, so she added, "I'll do whatever it takes to stay. Run errands, clean, anything that needs doing. As long as I don't have to go back out there."

"And what has driven you to such desperation, that you seek us out?"

Here she hesitated, but why lie? Real life had given her more than enough reason to want to get away from the rest of the world. So she explained her unease with her occupation and the demon armies that had destroyed Whiterun. She skirted around the encounter between Lucian and the Conduit, and the one between Lucian and herself; letting on that the Brotherhood might have reason to hunt her would not be a point in her favor.

When further prompted, she told him in detail of the little boy in Riverwood, and the nightmares in the days since then.

He didn't push her after that.

When she was done talking, he regarded her for a long moment, searching her face for honesty. The Greybeard didn't know what or how much to believe, though he seemed unsurprised by her words, even the part about the Void-creatures; as his expression didn't change much throughout her tale, she took that to mean that he just reacted stoically to any new information.

His distrust didn't surprise her. How many people would trust a cutthroat, after all? The old man looked down, perhaps thinking or searching his memory, before meeting her eyes again.

"Many years ago, another with blood on his hands came to these halls, and became a great man. I will allow you to stay." Relief flooded the assassin, some of the tension uncoiling from her stomach. "But I implore you to remember that this is a place of peace. If you bring violence to these halls, you will be ejected. There is no possibility for leniency in that."

The monk's eyes hardened with determination with his last sentence, but it had little effect on Ria. If the Brotherhood found her, being kicked out would be the least of her problems, so she didn't worry too much about his rule.

The next of the day came and went in a relative peace, something she was unused to after the controlled chaos of Dragonsreach's halls. She had no clothes that would keep her warmer than her armor did, and being this high up there was a constant chill to the air, even inside, so she was given an oversized grey robe she could through over her

Brotherhood leathers. If she stayed here much longer, she noted, she would need to get some winter clothes from somewhere.

The next morning, she was feeling stronger, a day of relative rest having done wonders for her aching body. She rearranged her bag and set it by the door, immediately to the right of the giant oak entryway where it was unlikely to be noticed, but easy to grab on her way out; if the other assassins found her here, she didn't want to be scrambling _away_ from the exit to grab her essentials.

After that, she hid herself away, reading and exploring, until hunger drove her to the main hall to inquire after lunch. She wasn't far from rounding the corner when she heard voices, raised in argument.

Well, one of them was arguing, anyway. The sound was muffled by the stone in between them, but someone was speaking in a volume close to yelling. Arngeir, the monk who had spoke to her after she awoke, said something in reply; the soft-spoken man was close as she knew he could get to shouting, mild anger tightening his voice. She quickened her pace, curious and annoyed about whoever this stranger was.

She really should have been used to the shock by this point.

Tristan froze when he saw her, apparently as unused to the shock as she was. But then his expression changed.

Once, while hunting with her father, Ria had seen a group of young wolves come upon a fox, which they cornered against the steep stone slopes surrounding Whiterun's plains.

The smaller canine was snarling and snapping before the pack was even truly upon it, teeth and claws flashing the first chance it got.

Dorrien was the fox in this situation. He went from surprised to angry while Ria was still trying to figure out why in Oblivion he was alive. She saw his hand come up, and, remembering his preference for bound weapons, ducked under the ethereal knife hurled at her head. Her hands went to her daggers out of reflex, drawing them to block the Breton's overhead swing of a summoned sword.

She ducked and dodged and blocked, noting Dorrien's improvement from last time. He must have healed more in the days since Whiterun; he was faster and stronger, less hindered by the wound she had glimpsed while in the bowels of Solitude. A few more days of good health and a few more hours with that sword, and Ria would find her equal- or her death.

Despite the Breton's obvious intent, Ria's wasn't trying to kill him, only trying to stay alive. Logic and fear were screaming in the back of her head, Arngeir's warning about violence occupying her mind. Her chances of remaining at High Hrothgar dwindled every time the Oblivion sword clanged against the Blade of Woe and her bone-handle knife, and would take a nose-dive if she drew the Breton's blood. But neither words nor retaliation slowed Tristan long enough to make a ploy for reason.

_Who knew people take their attempted murders so personally?_ Ria thought wryly.

"Enough!" Arngeir's voice held the power of a Shout in it, shaking the walls and freezing Dorrien in his place, the Breton's weapon dissipating with his anger. The monk was fuming, rage etched across his face and body language, and he glared at her when she didn't put away her weapons. She didn't plan to- Dorrien could obviously summon his blades faster than she could draw hers- but she caved under the old man's gaze, sheathing the daggers and watching the Breton out of the corner of her eye.

"How dare you." Arngeir growled lowly. "How dare you come to this place of peace and bring with you hatred and violence! I refuse to play host to your tainted souls. You both must leave."

Fear surged through Ria, and Arngeir gave her a look of equal parts disappointment and anger. _I warned you_, it seemed to say.

Neither of them moved for a heartbeat, and at the end of it Ria opened her mouth- to speak in defense of her actions, to swallow her pride and beg forgiveness- but the Greybeard was having none of it. He'd taken a chance and harbored and assassin, and it had nearly brought bloodshed to the monastery for the first time in centuries.

"Now!" he snapped at her before she had the chance to say a word. Her mouth clamped shut, a muscle working her jaw as she tried to contain her emotions.

Ria's eyes flickered to Dorrien, her mind a whirlwind of thought. After a grand total of not even two days, she was on the run again, and all because of the Breton standing next to her.

She shouldered past him and stalked to the door, swinging her bag onto her shoulder and stepping out into the frigid cold of the mountain. She took a deep breath, and began to run. She needed to put as much distance as possible between her and Dorrien, in case he wanted to continue their bout out of the Greybeard's supervision.

She thought as she ran, noting that it was much easier going down the mountain than it was coming up. She had to find somewhere else to lay low. Morthal and Winterhold were both low-population, isolated cities, but Ria hated the swamp and couldn't stand the cold.

She'd settled on a smaller town by the time she reached Ivarstead, perhaps Rorikstead or Shor's Stone. She slowed to a walk as she crossed the wooden bridge, breathing heavily as she trudged down the road towards Vilemyr Inn. She would need supplies to make the journey, and the inn was the closest thing to a trading post that this little town had.

Ria was only feet away from said inn when something down the road caught her eye. A figure on a dark horse was riding into the town opposite her, the wind catching the cloak and blowing it to the side enough to reveal the red-and-black armor of one shin and thigh. Ria froze when she saw it, but the horse's master had the opposite reaction; as soon as the other killer spotted Ria, she- the figure was to slender to be one of the boys, unless it was Cirion- kicked her mount into a gallop, shooting down the street towards the Imperial.

Ria drew her daggers, legs braced to dodge. She couldn't outrun a mounted member of her guild, but she might be able to fight. Whether or not she could actually kill one of her old friends, on the other hand, was yet to be seen. For the briefest second, she was thankful it wasn't Cicero or Lucian who had come after her; she knew without being put in that situation that she could never drive a dagger through the heart of her friend or her mentor-and-almost-uncle.

The mounted assassin drew a bow as she thundered down the road, and Ria knew, immediately and with certainty, who it was. She recognized the bow, and as horse and rider grew nearer it was a suspicion confirmed as she saw the red eyes of a Dunmer gazing out from under the hood.

Then Seba was upon her, almost plowing her over as the Dunmer notched an arrow and fired. Ria stepped to the left, so close to being run over that the horse's hoof almost trampled her foot. She slashed out with her knife as beast and elf blew past, cutting one of the saddle-straps. When the Dark Elf yanked the reins hard to the left, turning sharply back for another pass, the saddle shifted to the side under her weight, flinging her to the ground with surprising force. The horse started at something being by it's feet, and danced away.

Seba pushed herself to a knee and notched another arrow, her bow having stayed in her grasp despite the bruising and harsh fall. She drew and fired mere seconds after hitting the ground.

Ria threw herself forward and down, tucking-and-rolling as the arrow flew threw the air mere feet over her head. She was up and running as soon as her feet came back to the ground, charging towards Seba in an attempt to reach her before she could fire again.

The half-Imperial underestimated her attacker; the Dunmer stood and reloaded again in one fluid motion, and Ria was barely three feet away when the bowstring twanged for the last time. The action was so quick that Ria barely had the time to try and avoid it, and she darted to the right. The arrow slammed into her left shoulder, punching through her leather armor with ease at this distance, the force of the impact at such close range throwing her backward onto the ground.

Pain exploded across the left side of Ria's body at the same time the wind was knocked from her lungs, leaving her gasping and unable to think. The Blade of Woe was dropped involuntarily as her right hand went to the wound. The other assassin strolled forward, and she scrambled back without conscious thought, trying to put distance between them.  
Ria tried to focus; this was life-and-death, and adrenaline should have helped mask the pain enough for her to react. Instead, a fog seemed to hang over her mind, making the act of forming any sort of idea nigh on impossible.

Poison. She thought dimly. I've been poisoned.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she dropped her remaining knife and awkwardly wrestled her backpack off her shoulders, desperation making the agony it caused trivial. She had a general poison cure in her bag- she almost always traveled with one- and without it, she would succumb in minutes.

Ria was distantly aware of Seba staring down at her, lips curled back in disdain, and the Dunmer reached down with her free hand and yanked the bag away, flinging it aside. The half-imperial snatched her bone-handle dagger from where she had dropped it at her side, slashing weakly upward, but it went flying from her grasp as Seba kicked her wrist mid-swing.

Somewhere nearby, people were running and screaming for the guards, and the sound was more distracting than it should have been. Ria's thoughts were slowing to a crawl, unable to keep up with everything going on.

Seba still had her bow in hand, and she deliberately took another arrow from her quiver and touched the notch to the string, the projectile's tip so unavoidably close. There was no way, at point-blank range and with the poison clouding Ria's mind, that the next shot wouldn't kill her.

"I told Alistair not to let you two in." The Dunmer growled.

Ria's mind caught only on the name. _Alistair?_ She pictured the late Imperial, pinkish-red burn scars marring the unusually sharp planes of his face. _What's Alistair have to do __with anything? He's been dead for six years._

Seba, however, was still talking, and the half-Imperial summoned her willpower to ignore the distracting sound. _I need a weapon,_ she thought dimly, but her daggers were both far out of reach.

"-unfaithful petty cutthroats, but did he listen to me? No. And Lucian's not much better. I told him not to make you Speaker-"

_Lucian. Did he order this?_ The unneeded thought caused something to twist painfully in her chest. _Would he really put out a kill order?_

No, he couldn't have. Anything they'd felt for each other, platonic or otherwise, wouldn't just disappear overnight. He wouldn't want her dead, at least not this soon after her leaving. No, it was more plausible that Seba's mission was to bring her back alive. A fatal assault must have been the Dark Elf's doing; it was just Ria's luck to run into the one Family member who'd always preferred to see her and Jared out of the Brotherhood.

"-should've known you'd stick a knife in his back as soon as things got tough-"

_Knife in his back._ The phrase bounced off her brain, dragging an idea up with it. It wasn't a knife, and it wasn't in her back, but she did have one unconventional weapon available to her.

Ria awkwardly propped herself up on her elbows, gasping at the pain. She had to ignore it; she would only get seconds, and the poison was slowing her down on it's own. She held her plan in her mind, visualizing it, not letting it slip away.

"What, do you have some last words you'd like me to pass on?" Seba huffed sarcastically at the movement, obviously annoyed at being interrupted during her rant.

"Yeah." Ria said, her voice so hoarse and weak she could barely recognize it. She took a breath, marshalling her strength, and in one motion she lifted herself up farther and kicked out. Her foot hooked around Seba's leg, just below the knee, buckling it at the same time it swept the leg from under her. The Dunmer went down, her back colliding with the ground with a hollow _thumff_, her bow awkwardly pinned under her. In an instant, Ria pushed herself to her knees, wrapped her hand around the shaft of the arrow still stuck in her shoulder, and yanked it out. Agony flashed white-hot through her body, but she lunged forward, flipping the arrow around and driving it through Seba's neck. "You talk too much."

The slight cloud of dust kicked up by Seba's fall hadn't yet settled when the Dunmer's eyes went wide, blood spurting from around the arrow and pooling around her. She made a sickening strangled sound, and Ria couldn't decide if it was closer to the sound of a person who was choking or drowning.

The half-Imperial pushed herself to her feet and lurched away, her vision blurring as her head swam. Darkness was starting to descend on her mind; her rapid movements, combined with the poison that made her limbs more leaden by the second, was taking too much of a toll on her body.

The guards had finally arrived, she noticed dimly. It took only glances for them to learn what happened- the dead Dark Elf and the growing bloodstain on Ria's grey cloak was proof enough. Half-blind, semi-conscious, and so dizzy and lightheaded she could barely stand, she reached her bag, and began to fumble with the buckles.

_I just killed Seba_. The thought ran over and over again in her mind, incomprehensible. She had never liked the Dunmer, but she had known her for a decade. Of all the Family, Seba was whose life mattered the least to her, but that didn't mean that she wanted her dead. Now she was, by Ria's own hands, and guilt and mild grief was building itself in her chest.

Ria sensed more than saw someone stop a few feet away from her. She ignored whoever it was; whatever they wanted could wait until her chances of survival went up.  
Her hand finally closed around the small vial, and she drew it out, hands slipping on the cork. There was still blood coating her fingers, both her own and Seba's, and she was having trouble getting a good hold on it.

"Why'd you kill her?" A voice asked, nodding down the street. If Ria had had the energy, she would have jumped, both at the voice and the reminder, but as it was she barely flinched; Tristan Dorrien didn't top the list of her troubles at the moment. "Aren't you two on the same side?"

Ria's fingers found purchase, and she ripped the cork off, swallowing the bitter liquid in one gulp.

"If we were, she wouldn't have shot me." Ria snarled back once she could talk again. _If we were, I wouldn't have killed her._

She noticed no immediate effect of the cure. Then again, by now the blood loss might be mimicking the dulling effects of the poison. A second later, though, the pain in her shoulder became sharper- not because it increased in quantity, but because she could simply perceive it better. It was the only indication that the elixir had worked.

She almost preferred the poison.

The blood still flowing from her shoulder was the danger now; she pressed her right palm to it, trying to staunch the flow. With her left, she dug through her bag, searching for the healing potion she was sure she had packed. She found it quicker than she had the first, tearing the cork off with her teeth now that she lacked the use of either hand.

As soon as she drank it, some of the fog lifted from her mind, and she noted the odd sensation of the wound closing over. It wasn't healed by any means, but it was no longer bleeding freely, and she would survive. All she needed now was time to rest and regain the strength she'd lost, and to allow the damaged shoulder to heal fully.

The guards, who had huddled around the body that had once been Seba, turned towards Ria. Instinctively, her first reaction was to run; her mind was not so clear that she saw the folly in that, only so much that she recognized the engraved logic in avoiding lawmen- especially after she'd just killed someone. She pushed herself, swaying, to her feet, brain already planning. She needed to grab her daggers, and jump on the black horse Seba had rode in on, and get far from here.

Ria grabbed her bag, took three steps, and promptly passed out.


	12. Chapter 12 - A Bridge Between Foes

**Chapter 12: A Bridge Between Foes**

Tristan witnessed all of it.

Having been kicked out of High Hrothgar so quickly was unexpected, but, he realised, deserved. Regardless of that, having to go down the mountain within the same hour he'd just came up it was something that Tristan didn't think of in a positive light.

He had only made it to the foot of the mountain when he saw the second assassin on horseback, and the sight inspired some form of fear.

_Reinforcements, _he thought. _I'm dead._

If there was one thing the Dark Brotherhood could be commended on it was their tenacity, he supposed.

But when the second assassin began attacking the first that fear was replaced by surprise, and then confusion. Is this what happened to assassins who failed their contracts? They send out other assassins to kill those assassins?

Tristan crept closer as they fought, hoping that him still being alive wasn't the reason for this dispute. At last, the first assassin was on the ground, and Tristan knew from the blood that was slowly pooling around her that she was on her last legs. The second assassin, now unhorsed, went to deliver the final blow, but with what had to be her last reserves of energy the first assassin tripped her hunter and rammed the head of an arrow into her throat.

Tristan cringed. _Brutal._

She then rolled away, still looking to be in ample amounts of pain, and tried to make for her bag. The guards had approached the scene, and – as Nords were – not so quick to put two and two together.

Tristan abandoned his attempts at stealth and walked to where the first assassin was lying on the ground, grunting heavily as she fought to stay conscious as she pulled a vial from her bag and fumbled with the cork.

"Why'd you kill her?" Tristan asked, gesturing with a nod to the other assassin. "Aren't you two on the same side?"

She got the cork off and drank the contents greedily.

"If we were, she wouldn't have shot me," she snarled at him.

Tristan conceded the point.

She dug in her bag for something else, and was quick to draw a health potion. Divines knew she needed it. She uncorked it and began to drink, and Tristan watched absently, mulling over her words.

The guards began to make a ruckus, and they started to approach the pair. Tristan took a small step back to indicate he'd had nothing to do with what had happened. The assassin – on the other hand – panicked, and instinctively got up to run. Tristan almost laughed at her effort.

She took her bag, took three steps, and collapsed to the ground.

* * *

Half the day passed, and it was half a day that Tristan spent sitting in a tavern room sitting patiently on a chair, meditating on ways he could increase how much magicka he could use before fatigue would kick in. More often than not the answers lay within the spiritual plane. Not the spiritual plane of the religious nature, but of focusing and trying to _feel _the magic inside all things, and following that back all the way to Magnus, one of the Original Spirits and god of magic. Another method was traversing the planes of Oblivion. Being able to phase consciousness in and out of Oblivion was a trait possessed by some mages in Tamriel, but few knew how to do it, and those who could generally benefitted from it.

The room he was in was mediocre, even by small tavern standards. Skyrim was known for its warm and welcoming inns – such was the atmosphere outside the door – but in this room all of that vanished. The wood was rotting, and there was a dank smell of mould. Scattered around the room was furniture of equal mediocrity, and the walls had no windows to let in the light of the moon.

The chair Tristan sat on was blocking the door, stopping anyone from entering or leaving. The assassin was lying on the bed in her undergarments, still unconscious. He'd relieved her of her weapons and had laid them out on a table that occupied some space near him. Her uniform was hanging from a nail on the far wall. It had been washed in the river that flowed near Ivarstead., and so no longer smelled or looked like it was covered in blood and grime.

The time that passed between Tristan taking her here and him sitting on the chair seemed long, but meditation had kept his mind busy. However when she finally stirred, he would be lying to say he was disappointed.

He heard the sheets move slightly, and in an instant he had escaped from the pool of the arcane that he'd been searching for, back to reality. He watched carefully as the assassin stirred and then finally opened her eyes, and he registered that whatever those eyes expected to see when they woke was different to the situation as it was.

He let her get her bearings. She seemed surprised at first, but as he expected she was quick to employ her skills and scope out the room. She didn't appear bothered that she no longer wore her armour (she may have been good at hiding it), or perhaps the fact that all of her belongings were visible in the room eased her mind somewhat. Finally her eyes rested on him, and her brow furrowed somewhat, her lips dropping into what could have been a frown. The reaction was expected – he didn't particularly think too kindly of her either.

She watched him carefully, trying to pick up any sense of hostility, any sign that he was going to attack her. Tristan remained still and lax in his chair, watching her with equal measure. She must have figured that if he was to kill her he would have done it already, and Tristan noticed that her muscles relaxed somewhat – still ready to run if need be but not ready for a counterattack.

She stretched her injured arm and her hand went to where she'd been struck by the arrow. She inspected the pale scar that was still there, but it largely looked to be in working condition. Tristan internally smiled at his handiwork.

"I healed it," he said, breaking the strained silence that was present in the room. "Your potion had done enough to staunch the flow of blood and cover the wound, but for a fuller recovery it needed a purer form of healing magic."

She looked at him inquisitively, untrusting, but didn't open her mouth to speak the question that Tristan could see in her eyes.

"What's your name?" Tristan asked, changing position and leaning forward on his knees.

The assassin offered him a deadpan look, continuing her silence.

Tristan sighed. "Look, I can make this whole thing go by by calling you 'assassin', 'murderer', 'monster' or even 'cold-blood', but I would much rather call you by your name," he said. "So… what is it?"

She looked at him evenly for the best part of a minute, studying him more intensely than she had beforehand.

"Ria," she said at last.

Tristan smiled slightly. "Ok, Ria. Now, let's talk."

"Why aren't I in prison?" Ria asked quickly, taking Tristan by surprise. He knew she'd ask the question, but he had hoped to ask some of his own first. He definitely didn't expect her to be so forward about it.

"The Bretons have built their kingdoms on diplomacy," Tristan said, his own part well rehearsed. "I talked the guards out of arresting you."

"Why?"

"I needed to talk to you, and I didn't want to do it in a space full of guards and bars in between us."

She nodded slowly, understanding.

"So how are you feeling?"

"Pleasantries? Really?" Ria snapped.

Tristan shrugged. "It's easier to talk on even ground."

"And how even _is _this?" She questioned. "I'm in a bed, as unprotected as I could be, my weapons and my armour all the way over there, whereas you can summon your own weapons out of Oblivion!"

"A fair argument, I admit, but I still distinctly remember you trying to kill me in Whiterun."

"It was just business."

"But it's still a contract that has remained unfulfilled. The Dark Brotherhood are known for never letting contracts slip out of their fingers, so I'm not taking any chances."

"But –"

"You're still a Dark Brotherhood assassin, are you not?"

"I – " she hesitated, conflicted on what she was about to say. "I don't know…" She finished softly.

Tristan let the silence hang. He knew most people would feel uncomfortable with silence, and try to break it. He remembered his parents using silence to get him to admit to something he'd done wrong. Maybe she was like most people, or maybe she just wanted to get on with it.

"What do you want?" She asked, looking at him with fire burning in her eyes.

_Strong-willed, _Tristan noted. _A dangerous trait._

"Like I said, I just want to chat. Would I be right in thinking the Dark Brotherhood have eyes and ears everywhere?"

"Maybe," Ria responded.

_Stubborn, too. This just keeps getting better._

"Ok, well, tell me if you know anything about Imperial occupation of Skyrim."

The look on Ria's face told Tristan that she had no idea what he was talking about.

"Underground operations? Hidden society?" Tristan tried. "Nothing?" He sighed in frustration, leaning back into his chair. He closed his eyes to think.

"Why do you need to know?" Ria asked after some time.

"I need an army that can help me win a war," Tristan said absently. "The Nords are fierce, courageous, strong, but they can't beat the demons on their own."

"The demons…" Ria mumbled.

"The ones that appeared in Whiterun."

"I know. You plan to lead a war against them?"

"Not lead. I plan to fight against them."

"It'll be your death."

"I would rather die knowing that I tried to save the world that I lived in."

Ria said nothing. For the briefest of moments Tristan had forgotten who it was he was talking to, it was why he'd talked so freely. But he couldn't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, for but a second, the two seemed to share a common goal. The feeling was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

_This woman tried to kill you Tristan. Don't be lenient._

"Do you know anything about the Imperials?" Tristan asked again.

"How do I know you won't kill me once I've told you?" Ria countered, defensive but not entirely believing of the notion.

Tristan spread his arms out helplessly. "You don't," he said. "But _if _I did, would you rather die by my hand, or someone else's? Would you rather die by the hand of a demon?" He stood and collected Ria's belongings; armour, weapons, provisions, and placed them at the foot of the bed, within her reach. He went back to the chair, trying to decide whether he'd done the right thing or not by giving her back the things she could use to kill him.

_Too late to back out now._

"A show of faith," he said, gesturing to the items. He sat back down.

He knew Ria would only trust him less now that he'd willingly given her back her stuff. If she was a suspicious as he thought, she probably expected the armour to be laced with acid or something. Regardless, he tried to keep his stance and expression neutral.

Ria sighed. "I don't know anything about the Imperials, or what they might be doing in Skyrim," she admitted.

Tristan deflated. As unlikely as it was, he had hoped that maybe she knew something.

"I do know about the creatures though," she said.

Tristan perked up, but said nothing, instead letting her continue at her own pace.

"I know what they're capable of," she said slowly. "I know you can't beat them."

"But I think I can," Tristan interjected.

The assassin let out a bark of laughter. "You're fooling yourself, Dorrien."

Tristan paid her no mind. "I have a theory," he said carefully. "It has worked in the past, but I don't know if I'm right. I don't know if I'm keen to find out… But I'll have to try. If there's one thing I know about those things, it's that they won't come peacefully. If I don't try they'll wade through the blood of Tamriel," he added.

Another silence filled the room. The statement was a dark one, and it was heavy with truth. Both Ria and Tristan were tired and Ria – Tristan knew – was still injured, despite the healing he'd given her.

He sighed in defeat and stood, replacing the chair where it had been before he'd taken it.

"I'll leave you to it," he said quietly, and he exited the room.

* * *

He sat in the main room of the inn, his back to the fire, a flagon of ale in his hands. The change from the room was drastic. It was almost hard to believe that they occupied the same space.

He waited for some time, not watching the door but listening for when Ria planned to take that first step and be on her way. Perhaps half an hour passed before she did so, and it was the creaking door that alerted him to her presence.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see she had collected all of her things, and was hiding her assassin's outfit under a cloak.

The atmosphere of the inn was subdued. Everyone's eyes rested on her. How could they not? She'd killed a Dark Elf in the middle of their town.

Ria didn't look like the planned to hang around, and began pacing towards the door that would lead back out into the wilderness.

She stopped in front of Tristan.

"Why let me go?" She asked.

Tristan took a sip of his ale and sighed. "I guess we'll see."

She recognized that was all she'd get out of him, and with it she left.

Tristan estimated the time and made a mental note. He'd make to follow her at about midday tomorrow, perhaps then he could get some proper answers. Their short conversation hadn't much changed his opinion of the woman, but he recognized when he could benefit from keeping someone alive. He wasn't too worried about losing her, either. It didn't matter how far she got, he'd always know what track to follow. The Trace he'd cast on her ensured that.

* * *

Midday came slowly. Tristan had too much on his mind, and as such his sleep was restless. He was awake long before the sun was rising, so to keep busy he decided to do everything that there was to do in Ivarstead… twice.

Ivarstead was a small town, so that didn't take as much time as he had originally hoped. He spent his mid-morning writing a letter for the Commander who he hoped was still at Windhelm, and strapped the letter to Ahnwynn's saddle before he uttered a command and sent her off to deliver it. She was a strong horse, and he wished to see her again, but for this mission he didn't require her.

He packed what he could carry, choosing only to travel light, and by the time midday rolled around he was on the road, following the faint tugging sensation that would eventually lead him to Ria. From what he could feel, Ria was about a day ahead of him. He expected no less from the assassin. She could make ground faster than he.

Tristan followed the trail absentmindedly, thinking about the events that had transpired within the last day that had passed. Even though the assassin claimed to no longer be on the side of the Dark Brotherhood, he had no reason to believe her, as she had no evidence to prove it – other than the arrow-shaped scar in her shoulder. This led him to something that had been weighing on him for some time.

"_Why aren't I in prison?"_

"_I talked the guards out of arresting you."_

While the statement was true, the reason he offered for it was not as much of the truth as he would care to admit. In reality, he had told the Ivarstead guards that if he tracked her he could lead them to the Dark Brotherhood's base of operations, and once the base had been purged Skyrim would be free of the sect that had killed the Emperor. He must have told it very convincingly, because they believed him. And no matter how long it took, he would find a way to make good on that deal.

_After our current crisis is put to bed, _Tristan thought, trying to cheer himself up with some pointless humour. He smiled weakly and continued along the road, following the Trace for hours, and then days. Never losing a sense of where Ria was, but never gaining ground on her either.

* * *

"We've been sent to take you down. No one crosses Maven Black-Briar and lives."

Tristan had encountered the mercenaries near Fort Sungard. They were large and muscled, with menacing tattoos and dense steel armour and weapons. There were three of them, and they were definitely dangerous. When he came across them three thoughts had entered his mind. The first thought was something to the effect of: _how in Oblivion's name did they find me out here? _The second being: _Maven is really persistent. _The third: _the Dark Brotherhood must be in her bad-books if she's sending these guys._

They crossed him nearing the end of his second day of travel. Without a herd of refugees to care for, he made pretty good headway on his mission of following Ria. He'd noticed that the Trace was leading him around the south side of the Throat of the World and through Falkreath Hold. It was a difficult route, but Tristan had enough of an intuition to tell that she was avoiding the demon-infested Whiterun.

Tristan wasn't concerned about the mercenaries – a single Dark Brotherhood assassin was worth about a dozen of them – but they still had an advantage in numbers, and Tristan really wasn't in the mood for a fight.

"C'mon gents," he beamed, spreading his arms wide. "Do we really have to do this here? I'll tell you what, whatever Maven paid you I'll pay double and you just turn around a leave, eh? How about it?"

The first mercenary – a Nord with short-cropped dark hair - scoffed. "We're not like you, mate. We're not ones to cross Maven Black-Briar." He hefted his battleaxe from his back and readied it. His buddies – a burly Orc and a lean Bosmer – did the same with their weapons, the Orc also wielding a battleaxe but the Bosmer dual-wielding war axes.

"It's nothing personal," the Orc said, stepping forward. "Just business."

Tristan inwardly rolled his eyes at the statement. He took a step back and held his hands up in surrender.

"Now men, I've been on the road for some time and there are three of you. This is hardly a fair fight," he said sternly.

"We don't play fair," the Nord grinned wolfishly.

The Bosmer cackled.

"Oh," Tristan said, taking a fighting stance. "Ok, I'll use both of my arms then."

And just like that the Bosmer and the Nord charged, the Orc having fallen to the ground dead with a Bound Dagger buried to the hilt in his face.

_I'm getting _really_ good at that, _Tristan thought absently, casting his Bound Sword and readying a Healing spell.

The Nord was easy to dispatch. He had size and strength to boot, but he was clumsy with his battleaxe. After one swing it got stuck in the dirt and quick as lightning Tristan slashed his blade across the mercenaries throat. He fell onto his own battleaxe and started bleeding onto the dirt, the surrounding grass greedily soaking up the drink.

The Bosmer was a lot harder to handle. He was thin and fast, and darted about Tristan as if he were a predator playing a game with his prey. The death of his comrades seemed to phase him very little (if he were like any other mercenary he probably didn't like either of them anyway). All he was concerned with was killing Tristan, collecting the reward, and having fun doing it.

As the wood elf danced about he would occasionally dart inwards for a quick strike, most of which Tristan had trouble blocking. This went on for some time, and after a while Tristan started sporting knicks and scratches from where the Bosmer had managed to find skin with his weapons. Tristan needed a different strategy.

"Enough!" He shouted, dispelling his sword.

The Bosmer – surprisingly – stopped, only to look confused.

Tristan stood front on and gestured for the wood elf to continue.

The Bosmer cackled and lunged, two war axes coming in from both sides. Tristan summoned two Wards in each hand and deflected the blows. His enemy overbalanced, and Tristan saw his chance and sent a swift kick to his crotch. The Bosmer stood motionless for a moment, before tears sprang to his eyes and he doubled over in pain, panting heavily and holding his aching jewels.

"That wasn't nice, I apologise," Tristan said, kneeling down to look the wood elf in the eyes. "Now you tell Maven to pull her silver spoon out of her ass, and come face me herself like a true leader."

He stood and turned, taking a second to feel out the Trace before following the same path he was on. Letting the Bosmer live was probably a decision Tristan would come to regret, but if it got Maven the tiniest bit angry he figured it was worth it.

* * *

A few hours passed before Tristan noticed that the tugging feeling he was getting from the Trace was growing stronger, and that only meant one thing.

_She's stopped._

The revelation only contributed to his efforts, and within another day of travel he arrived in Rorikstead, the pulling of the Trace making strong butterflies in his gut. When he arrived it was approaching on night, the sun a long way through its venture towards the horizon. In the distance Tristan could see the peak of Dragonsreach, and the sight of it made him shiver involuntarily. He turned his gaze away and steeled his mind, intent on his mission.

It was a moment of surprise for Tristan when the Trace drew him to the local inn. In all honesty he hadn't expected a Dark Brotherhood base to be located in this area at all, but then they were crafty enough to know people wouldn't anticipate one.

_Or Ria was telling the truth, _Tristan thought, nudging the door open and being welcomed by the soft buzz of the inn and the warm glow of the fire.

He spotted the cloaked assassin sitting in corner with her feet up on a chair. The corner itself was in shadow, and the colours of her gear only let her further blend in. She was easy to miss, but only if you weren't looking for her.

She made no move at all when Tristan took the seat next to her. The two sat in tense silence for some time before she spoke.

"It's hardly a surprise to see you here," she said evenly. "I knew you'd be following me."

"I figured as much," Tristan responded.

"So what's your plan now?"

"The same as it was before. This just took me somewhat out of my way."

Ria chuckled. Whether it was of humour or mocking Tristan was unsure, but it was a chuckle.

The door to the inn opened, and the silhouette of a man stepped in. The man himself held an air of authority about him, and filled the room with a cold inferiority. He liked to be in charge, Tristan could tell. He was balding and wore brown and red leathers that resembled Cyrodiilic garments, but were more tailored for combat than warmth. He scanned the room slowly before his eyes fell on Tristan and Ria.

Tristan made to stand up but Ria's hand darted out and grabbed his arm, a gesture to tell him to stay sitting. Tristan reluctantly complied, his fingers preparing their magical dance if things went awry. He felt rather than saw Ria's hands go to her daggers.

The man approached them slowly, but said nothing. When he was standing in front of them he rummaged around in his pockets and produced a piece of parchment which he dropped at their feet before turning and leaving, disappearing back into the world.

Tristan let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and reached down to collect the parchment.

"What was that all about?" Ria voiced the thought that was in his head.

"I've no idea," Tristan said, looking at what the man had dropped.

"Well?" Ria asked after Tristan had been quiet for some time. "Are you going to share?"

Tristan glanced at Ria and showed her the parchment.

On it was drawn the insignia of the Empire, below that, a picture of a bridge.


	13. Chapter 13 - Agents of the Empire

**Chapter 13: Agents of the Empire**

Ria had learned long ago when was the time to draw attention to oneself, and when it wasn't. The man with a commander's gait was not someone they needed to make known to the tavern; if he wanted to kill them, he would do it elsewhere or not at all, so his focus on them had to be about something else. Still, she didn't much like the easy danger in his body, and her hands hovered unconsciously near her daggers.

The man stopped and dropped a piece of paper on the floor in front of them, leaving as quick as he came. Tristan picked it up first, and took some prompting before he would turn the image towards her direction.

Ria leaned forward slightly to take in what was drawn on it. It held the diamond-shaped dragon of the Empire, and a bridge below that. Her brow furrowed, momentarily confused.

"Dragon Bridge." she said aloud a second later, when she considered the animal and not the group it stood for. She glanced up at Dorrien, her mild annoyance at his presence forgotten for the moment. "The question is, which one of us is it for?"

"He looked like someone from your line of work."

Ria glanced back to the door. "He looked Imperial." There was silence for a long while, each of them contemplating the message. It was late afternoon now; if Ria actually heeded what was obviously a summons, she could be in Dragon Bridge well before dawn.

But what reason did she have to leave? With the inn's low rates and her and Jared's combined savings, she could buy lodging and supplies for almost half a year. That was more than enough time to find a job with a farmer, or to set up traplines and learn game trails. Once she had a steady source of income, there wouldn't be much reason to leave

Rorikstead and venture out where Brotherhood informants lurked.

Her gaze drifted back to the door. If the summons was for her, what would happen if she didn't answer it? If whoever sent the message sent it specifically to her, they knew who and where she was- something the Brotherhood would be keen to learn. Upsetting that person could be a risk.

And then there was the possibility that it was the Brotherhood, setting a trap. If this was Lucian's doing, it was a poor idea; curiosity was the only bait, and she was not the kind of half-cat to be killed by it.

Ria had yet to re-rent a room for the night, having decided to have dinner and a look around the town first, so her bag and all her possessions sat on the floor, leaning against the chair she'd had her feet on. She stood and swung it onto her shoulder, marveling at the lack of stiffness in the joint; Dorrien had done a recommendable job healing it, even if it had been for his own ends.

She still wasn't sure why Dorrien had chosen to follow her, only known, from the minute she left Ivarstead, that he had; he wouldn't have let her go otherwise. The deduction was the he either wanted the Brotherhood, or wanted something that had to do with the Void demons, but he would get neither from her.

"Don't follow me this time." She said, glancing down at Dorrien. "I'll kill any tails."

He was unphased by the threat. "You're actually going to Dragon Bridge, then?"

"I'm going somewhere where people will stop finding me." The annoyance in her voice was fierce and genuine, even if the statement was false. First High Hrothgar and now Rorikstead; she was running out of inconspicuous places to hide. At this rate, she would end up in Cyrodiil.

* * *

Ria was eating lunch and lounging in a tree outside Dragons Bridge when Tristan Dorrien came down the road. She grabbed her knapsack from where it sat on a limb next to her, slinging it over her shoulders and slipping from the tree. Then she trotted towards the road, pulling her cloak tighter around her and throwing up the hood as she gained ground. If Dorrien was startled when she fell into step next to him, he didn't show it.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't show." she said to the Breton.

A wry smile crossed his face, but Ria didn't know him well enough to be able to tell if it was genuine or rueful. "Funny, I was about to say the same to you."

"Yeah, funny." Ria said flatly. The sound of their feet on the ground changed slightly as they reached the bridge that gave the town it's name. She nodded towards one of the buildings. "I think they're based in that one. Smoke's been coming out of the chimney all morning, but otherwise you'd think the place was abandoned."

The statement earned her a sideways glance, and after a moment, Tristan said, "Why are you telling me this? I was given the impression you wanted nothing to do with me. Now you act like we're going into this together."

"Well, I'm not going in there alone. Especially if that message was meant for me."

"And if it was meant for me?" There was a challenge in his voice.

Ria didn't answer. They reached the other side of the bridge, and the men working at the lumber mill shot them curious glances. The assassin tugged her hood lower over her face.

"So I'm bait." Tristan said after a moment's silence. He sounded offended.

"Worst case scenario, you're more like a distraction." Was the half-Imperials reply. She didn't bother trying to otherwise contradict the statement; he was bait, prey that would put up an interesting fight and give her time to slip away if the whole thing was a Brotherhood trap.

The pair made a bee-line for the house Ria had pointed out. A fact came, unbidden, to mind, that Dragons Bridge had once housed a Penitus Oculatus headquarters. The thought made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

They mounted the porch and approached the door, though both the Breton and Imperial hesitated there. They were saved from the predicament of whether or not to knock when the door swung inward, revealing a Nord man standing in the doorway. He wasn't the same one that had found them at the inn, but he was similarly muscled, and a sword hung at his hip.

"Come in, quickly." He hissed, agitated. "You've attracted enough attention already."

There was a heartbeat in which no one moved, and Ria glanced at Dorrien, following when he realized she wouldn't go first and stepped through the doorway. When they were both inside, the door was shut behind them, and the Nord stalked off deeper into the house.

Ria didn't know what gave her attacker away- a slight creak as she shifted forward, seeing her shadow out of the corner of her eye- but in a second, the assassin had drawn her daggers and spun back towards the door, towards the person who had been lying in wait next to it. At the other end of Ria's blade was a neck that belonged to a very surprised looking woman, her Imperial sword drawn and in her hand, obviously intended having been intended to be used if it wouldn't now mean her death.

Next to her, Dorrien was in the same situation in reverse; an Imperial, the very one from Rorikstead, stood behind the Breton, the point of his sword lost from sight as it rested between Tristan's shoulder-blades.

"Now, let's just all calm down and-" The Imperial didn't get a chance to finish the sentence; a ball of light formed in Tristan's hand and zipped back into the man's face. It dissipated without any harm- Ria had watched Cirion train enough to recognize a harmless magelight- but the Imperial didn't know that, and he flinched back, swordpoint dropping as his hand came up to shield his face. Dorrien spun and kicked the Imperial's stomach as a blue ethereal sword came to life in his hands, and the Imperial's back slammed into the wall. In an instant, the taller man was the one with a blade at his throat.

"Drop your weapons!" A male voice, the Nord who had greeted them at the door, barked from behind Ria. She immediately stepped so she was behind the woman at the end of her blade, putting the other Imperial's body between her and the doorman. He had ascended a set of stairs from her left, and as she watched another Nord followed the first up the steps at a run, this one's sword drawn.

It was the first instance that Ria noticed their armor- all their armor. The woman in front of her, the man from Rorikstead, both Nords, they were all dressed in a style of raiment not seen in Skyrim for almost three decades: Legionnaire. If it weren't for her mother's set, the breastplate always hanging over the mantle, Ria wouldn't even recognize it; she'd never seen another example of Imperial armor in Stormcloak-controlled Skyrim.

Tristan had seemed to have an interest in finding whatever remained of the Empire in Skyrim. It seemed he'd accomplished that goal. It also seemed that the message had been meant for him after all; Ria began making plans accordingly.

"Like your friends dropped theirs?" Ria snarled over the Imperial's shoulder, shoving her thoughts to the back of her mind.

One of the stairs creaked, and Ria's eyes darted once again back to the staircase that descended below ground. Another person emerged from it, stopping at the top with her hand on the rail, looking none too amused by what she saw.

"Who are we, the Thalmor?" The woman's voice rang out, clear and commanding, with a slight Nordic accent. She too wore the armor of the Empire, and her red-brown hair was streaked heavily with grey. "Put your weapons away, all of you."

"But, ma'am, they haven't been searched, and procedure states-" Tristan's Imperial started, but the woman's challenging gaze silenced him.

"I don't care what procedure states, Caius. It's just making things worse."

The men and women dressed in Legionnaire armor exchanged looks amongst themselves. Slowly, they sheathed their blades; first, the pair of Nords, and, after an exchanged glance between assassin and Breton, the Imperials that Ria and Tristan released. The latter's summoned sword disappeared from existence, and Ria also sheathed the Blade of Woe, though she kept the bone-handle knife out, idly twirling it around her fingers.

The silence that followed was charged with nothing but tension.

"I believe we got off on the wrong foot." Dorrien finally said. "I am Tristan Dorrien. I come to seek your aid regarding the protection of Skyrim."

_The Bretons_, Ria mentally scoffed, somewhere between amuse and annoyed by the courteous tone. _Such diplomats. _

"We know who you are." The Imperial from Rorikstead- Caius- said, contempt in his voice. It seemed he took being overpowered by the shorter man quite personally. His gaze shifted to Ria. "You, however… who in Oblivion are you?"

"Cateria Verres." She answered; anyone who'd known her a decade ago had most likely perished in the demon invasion of Whiterun, and her real name would passably serve as an alias now. Her gaze flickered to Dorrien as she spoke, and the relaxed twirling of her knife sped up notably. He glanced to it, the only sign that he recognized the silent threat. Ria looked back to Caius and added, "Blade for hire."

One of the Nords scoffed. "Mercenaries." he muttered disdainfully under his breathe. Ria smiled icily and didn't correct him. The older Nordic woman spared neither of them a look as her subordinate kinsman spoke, her eyes on Dorrien as she awaited an explanation; she had noticed the shared looks that accompanied Ria's answer.

"She owed me a favor, and the roads are dangerous in times like these." The Breton said at length.

It was his turn to glance at Ria, to ensure she understood the meaning of his first words. Caius's commander studied him for several more seconds, but let the subject drop.  
Instead, she motioned to a table across the room; it was the first time Ria had cause to look in that direction, and the first time she noticed the blazing hearth and the dining table next to it. "Come. We have much to discuss."

A few seconds later, the armored Nords and Imperials had disappeared downstairs, save Caius, who lounged on the railing of the descending stairs, watching the processions a few yards away from him. Dorrien and the Nordic woman settled at the table, the latter looking at Ria expecting, waiting for her to join them.  
The assassin shook her head. "You and I can talk separately. I'm not with him."

The commander arched and eyebrow. "You said you owed him a debt."

"He still lives. Anything I owe him is paid by that. You and I can come to a separate agreement."

The other woman studied her for a moment. "Why would we discuss anything at all? We summoned Tristan. You are an uninvited guest."

Ria flashed her most charming smile. "Because I'm useful and the Legion is powerful. Those two groups are usually of some help to each other."

"You can't expect a Nord to accept help they haven't asked for, sellsword."

"And what are your other options? I know where your little hideout is now. That makes me a threat. So you can either let me work with you, or you can kill me." The honeyed grin turned predatory, "And I'm a very hard person to kill."

"Inconveniently so." Tristan agreed. Ria scowled at him.

The Nord woman studied the assassin for several more seconds before nodding. "Very well, then. Introductions are in order. I am Legate Rikke, head of the Imperial operations in Skyrim."

Ria kept her surprise under control. She recognized the name from her mother's stories; Rikke, the Nord Legionnaire who fought alongside Ulfric in the Great War and fell to his blade in the Battle of Solitude.

"The Empire didn't abandoned us, then." Tristan said, relief in his voice. One little phrase, _Imperial operations in Skyrim_, were all it took to confirm the Empire was still willing to help the country that had rebelled against it. Or at least, they were willing to keep it from crumbling so they might take it back.

"Skyrim needs the Empire as much as it needs us. And even if the Imperials would abandon Skyrim, I would not." Rikke paused. "So we must find a way to combat this new threat."

"Ulfric will refuse your help if you offer. He already said as much."

"I expected that from him. We simply won't offer."

Tristan stiffened, leaned forward. "You have to, and you have to find a way to get him to accept. The Stormcloaks can't do this by themselves, and neither can you. If you don't come to-"

"I know the Empire cannot protect Skyrim alone." Rikke interrupted. "But as you said, my old friend won't accept the Empire's help. He's too sure of his own ability to deal with this situation."

"Then he's an arrogant fool." Ria said flatly. She was the daughter of a Khajiit; she grew up harboring no love for Ulfric's men or how they treated her family.

"Perhaps, but he loves his homeland. He'll realize that he needs our help eventually."

"So what, then? We wait for that day to come?" Anger and the starts of desperation were creeping into Dorrien's voice. If the shouting match at High Hrothgar was anything to go by, though, he was keeping himself under control. "Skyrim will be ash by the time it gets here."

"You misunderstand, Breton. We won't be idle while we wait." She glanced across the room, to her waiting subordinate. "Caius."

The Imperial pushed from the stair railing and stalked across the room, plucking a roll of paper from the mantle as he passed it. Rikke stood and helped him to unfurl it across the table. It was a map of Skyrim, and a large one; it showed the Holds in detail, with several forts and major landmarks annotated within each area.

While Ria took a few steps forward to look over Dorrien's shoulder at the map, Caius pointed to Morthal and began speaking.

"Our agents have reported disturbances just outside Morthal, starting a few days ago. Townspeople and travelers claim to see black, animalistic creatures with red eyes. We believe it's related to the creatures that destroyed Whiterun." He paused, seemingly just to give the chill creeping up Ria's spine a chance to be noticed. Lucian was the head of the Void's army; one way or another, the Dark Brotherhood were in Morthal, and it was too close for comfort.

"Several people also claim to see a darkly-robed figure. We have a few accounts of this person summoning the creatures, though the sources are questionable. If you wish to be of help, you can travel to Morthal, find out what is spawning these entities, and put a stop to it."

_Summoning. Can Void creatures be summoned? It isn't a plane of Oblivion, and even if it behaves like one, who would know a spell like that?  
_

_The Brotherhood, of course_. She knew the thought was right the moment it crossed her mind. The Brotherhood had the knowledge, and Cirion, with all his classic High Elf skill, had the ability. With a sinking feeling, she realized what that meant: that they were sending Tristan off to kill her Brother.

She pushed the thought from her head; Cirion could take care of himself. In a battle of magic between a Breton and a Altmer, the Altmer would win. It was a comforting thought, though she knew better. If Tristan got in close with a Bound blade, her Brother would most likely die.

Tristan nodded. "I'll see what I can do, but I would ask that you do whatever you can for Windhelm. They won't survive a second attack."

_So he knows about Windhelm. Was he there?_

"We already have agents in place, for whatever help they'll be." Caius said.

"Do you- either of you-" Rikke glanced to Ria, pointedly including her in the question, "Have any more information about this threat?" The Nordic Legate looked to Dorrien expectedly, thinking that he had the most experience of the two of them.

"Restoration magic closes their portals." Tristan answered almost immediately. "And when they die, they explode into corrosive ash." A shudder went through him at that sentence, and Ria thought of how the street of Windhelm must have looked, covered in bodies in the same state as the prison guardsman from Solitude. She almost shuddered as well.

"The ash we knew of, but not this bit about healing magic We should send someone to the College to investigate further." Caius accompanied his words with a glance to Rikke. When she nodded her approval, Caius left and descended the stairs, presumably to organize the new mission. Ria was left alone with Rikke and Dorrien.

The former looked at Ria. "And you? Do you know anything about it?"

"No." she lied flatly. She'd killed Seba, and was going to allow Tristan to kill Cirion; she wouldn't throw Lucian and the others to the wolves and tell the Empire of the Brotherhood's involvement.

Rikke nodded once. "You said you wanted to help. What do you propose?"

"I'm a blade for hire. Hire me. I can be a spy, a courier, a knife in the dark. Whatever you need."

"And your payment?"

"A house." Ria answered. She pressed on before Rikke could give voice to the surprise that lit her and Dorrien's faces. "Nothing extravagant. Just a place to rest my head in small-town Cyrodiil. When this is all over, of course, you'll conveniently forget it's location."

It wasn't her first choice, but she'd had all morning to think about it. The Brotherhood would keep coming after her- would actively hunt her when they learned of Seba's death. With the Brotherhood's center of power being Skyrim, the Void armies would take over it first. Ergo, there was nothing to keep her in the frozen province, and blood on its horizon; Cyrodiil was her best option for survival.

Not for the first time, Rikke took her time studying Ria, before nodding. "I have a good feeling about you. About both of you. And I haven't had a good feeling about anyone since…" she trailed off, shook her head. "Complete your first assignment, and you'll have an agreement, sellsword."

A trace of a smile crossed Ria's face, more of relief than humor. Despite everything else, this might be a benefit for her. She would work for the Empire until they got her a place to live, and then she'd drop them and move to Cyrodiil. It pained her, slightly, to turn her back on her homeland so callously.

She wagered dying would pain her more.

"Good. What's my first-" she almost said _contract_, "-mission?"

"The same as Dorrien's. Accompany him to Morthal, and put a stop to whatever is happening there."

"What?" Tristan hissed.

"Not a chance." Ria said flatly.

"This isn't debatable, Verres." Rikke said, steel in her voice. "As long as you're with the Legion, you'll follow orders like any other soldier."

Wanna bet? Ria almost snarled, but she clamped down on her anger. Best not to bite the hand that fed her. I'll slip away, get there first. Cirion will be long gone by the time Dorrien gets there.

"Fine." she growled through gritted teeth, glaring daggers at Dorrien. The Breton returned the look, as thrilled with the prospect as she was.

"You'll find horses waiting for you on a farm east of town. I expect you back within the week."  
Dorrien nodded tightly and rose. Ria jerked a nod to the Legate as well and stalked to the door, slipping out it without so much as a backward glance. The Breton caught the door before it closed and followed her out.

"If you're planning something, Ria-"

"I'm planning the same thing everyone plans, Dorrien. Survival." She shot him a agitated sideways glance. "Don't worry, I'm not going to turn on your Imperial friends before they can save Skyrim."

They reached the bridge and began the walk across, as they had almost an hour before. "And how would my Imperial friends feel if they knew you killed the Emperor?"

Ria stopped in her tracks. "How-" She clamped her jaw shut. He must have put the pieces together- her short imprisonment in Solitude, her job as an assassin. Perhaps he was smarter than his actions against Black-Briar had suggested. She pushed on, pace brisker. "Don't threaten me, Dorrien. You don't have a hoard of Penticus Oculatus to guard your back."

If there was one thing to put a damper on conversation, it was saying how relatively easy it would be to kill one's conversational partner. Even if it was half bluff, it kept the silence until they reached the farm.

"The horses are in the stables on the other side of the house. Don't be longer than you have to." The farmer called as they neared his land. Ria nodded, and Tristan thanked the man. They still hadn't spoken to each other when they saddled and mounted their horses.

"I know a place in Morthal where this demon summoner is likely to be. We should get as far as we can today and begin the search tomorrow."

Tristan nodded, and the pair set off down the road, bound for Morthal.

* * *

Tristan was jerking slightly in his sleep as Ria rose and crept away from their campfire. The going was slow at first; they were perhaps a hour away from Morthal- her skin crawled to be so close to that city - and the marshy land made her skirt water to remain silent.

When she was far enough away from the camp that she wouldn't be heard, she picked up the pace, jumping from one area of soft land to another, sometimes wading through large pools of stagnant water. It was less than a half-hour later when she reached a shack, the little hut long since established as a waystation for traveling assassins.

She was just starting to pick the lock when a familiar voice sounded behind her, and flames threw her shadow on the building's door.

"Raise your hands above your head, or I shall incinerate you." The Altmer accent was almost lost as Cirion growled out the command. Ria did as he said, wondering if he recognized her with the grey cloak covering her armor. His next sentence proved that he didn't. "How did you find this place?"

"Alistair's habit of drugging and kidnapping his recruits."

Stunned silence followed the reply, and the world turned dim once again as the fire in Cirion's hands disappeared. The next second, Ria was spun around and wrapped in a hug.

"Where have you been!? Are you well? You're not injured, I trust? Why did-"

"Calm down, Brother. I'm fine."

The High Elf held her at arm's length and swept his gaze over her, as though to confirm the statement for himself. His face quickly took on a darker expression.

"What's going on, Sister? Why did you leave?"

Ria ignored the question. There was something she had to be sure of, and that was whether or not Seba had been acting under Lucian's orders. She feared the answer. "Why did Seba try to kill me?"

Horror took over Cirion's golden face. "I knew her temper, but I never fathomed… We didn't know what to believe, Ria. We thought… Well, Lucian woke in your bed, so we inferred..." Ria felt her cheeks growing redder the more he spoke, and Cirion cleared his throat and continued, "But Seba thought you'd turned your back on us. She slipped away before Lucian could forbid it. Where is she? She didn't return to Whiterun."

The new information roared through her head, and once again she ignored his question. "You need to get out of here, Cirion. I don't know what your mission is, but it's attracted attention."

Confusion crossed the High Elf's face, but he didn't have time to reply. A twig snapped perhaps twenty yards away, monumentally loud in the quiet of the night, and both assassins whirled to face the sound, Ria's daggers appearing in her hand. Cirion made a motion with his, purple-black magic in his palms, and to her surprise, a pair of pitch-black rifts appeared on either side of him, perhaps a few feet wide by six feet tall. A lupine shape leaped from either portal, hairless ebony bodies and red eyes standing out in the light cast by the moons, and the miniature Void gates close behind them. Ahead in the darkness, a shape stood from a crouch, a blue ethereal bow coming to life in his hand.

"Not planning anything, right, Ria?" Tristan called sarcastically.

"It's called diplomacy, Breton." she snarled back, trying to think of a way to spin the situation so she didn't look like she was conspiring with the Legion's enemies.

Fire leapt into Cirion's hands, and Ria stepped in front of him, her back to Tristan so neither could fire on the other. It was a foolish choice, she would later decide, but in the moment she only knew that she needed to defuse the situation, before Cirion was dead and Tristan had reason to tell Rikke of her past.

"Just go back to Whiterun." She said. "No one else has to die here."

Too late, she remembered Cirion's skills of deduction. "Else?" He growled. His eyes darted between Ria and Tristan, and the former took a step back. "Where's Seba?" The nearest dog snapped at her, and she sprung back another few feet. Her silence was enough of an answer.

"I see." Behind her, she heard the sound of Tristan's bow being drawn, and Cirion's eyes darted to him. "And now you lead an enemy to my doorstep." Anger was building itself up in his face the longer he looked at the Breton.

Cirion's hands came up, a fireball shooting from his palms. Ria reacted without thought, hurling her bone-handle knife with all her strength.

It was only after the knife left her hand that she realized Cirion hadn't been aiming for her; his fireball sailed over her shoulder, only to be dodged by Tristan at the same instant the blade buried in the High Elf's chest.

Her Brother stared down in shock at the handle of the knife, taking a staggering step back before his knees went out from under him. The Void hounds threw back their heads; Ria expected a howl, but instead the ear-piercing shriek of the Whiterun demons reverberated out. In the next instance, the pair rested accusing red eyes on Ria, and shot off into the wilderness. Westward, she noted- no doubt to bring word to Lucian of her betrayal.

The instant they were gone, Ria was moving forward, dropping to her knees next to Cirion's prone form. He was still alive, blood pouring from his chest. His held his hand up, and she took it, feeling searing pain as he attempted a fire spell. She might have admired his tenacity, if her throat hadn't been so constricted she could hardly breathe.

She heard Tristan behind her, his footsteps shuffling in hesitation before coming towards her. "Get back." she snarled out over her shoulder, unable to shake the thought that if he weren't here, Cirion would be alive. He complied, eyes sweeping over the scene.

Her Brother clung to life, bleeding out slowly, and at the minute Ria didn't care that behind her, Tristan was looking at Cirion's black and red mage robes, and glancing after the Void hounds, and slowly putting together the Dark Brotherhood's involvement in the Void Crisis.


	14. Chapter 14 - A Strike from the Void

**Chapter 14: A Strike from the Void**

"Heal him!" Ria screamed. "He'd be alive if not for you! You owe me. Heal him."

Tristan glanced at Ria, holding the bleeding High Elf in her arms, and shook his head.

"I can't," Tristan said quietly. "He was the mission. Now the mission's complete. Besides," he continued, "he's more dangerous alive than he is dead. And either way, I doubt it'll change anything. Not for you, at least."

Ria was shaking, fury and anguish pulsing through her body.

"Curse you, Dorrien," she spat.

Tristan shrugged weakly and left her to her mourning, a million thoughts refusing to settle in his mind.

* * *

Tristan was furious, but he did a decent job at hiding it. Or keep it contained, at least.

He'd been a fool for thinking Ria would actually _work _with him on this.

Tristan had turned and left Ria to her friends body, packing up his half of the camp and riding out towards the west, hoping to circle around to approach Dragon Bridge from the east. He doubted he'd be followed by any of the demons, but it never hurt to be sure. Besides, the cloaked man was dead, and that was the mission. He wasn't going to stick around to face the demons. Not when it was just he and Ria.

He knew without a doubt that Ria would find him, though what would spur her to regroup with Tristan was beyond his understanding. Regardless, he'd been sitting near the fire he'd made mulling over the information he'd pieced together in the last two hours. The minor news was that the demons weren't limited to foot soldiers. There were hounds as well, and that meant there were likely other types of units. But that information was nothing compared to Ria's involvement with the crisis.

She knew who they'd been sent to end; she drew them there and tried to inform them to run.

_Diplomacy? _Tristan thought darkly. _No, treachery if anything… Whose side is she even on?_

The answer was simple. Ria was on her own side. Survival concerned her more than anything, and the animals that intend to survive tend to bite the hardest, be the craftiest.

If Ria was involved with the threat that meant the Dark Brotherhood was involved. And if the Dark Brotherhood was involved it meant Ria had a lot more information than she let on.

At last, unsurprisingly, Ria emerged from the darkness leading her horse. Tristan glared at her, but she never met his gaze.

_So she came back, _he thought, bemused.

Ria sat in front of the fire and said nothing. She took out a dagger that looked to be fashioned from bone and placed it in front of her. The blood was black with dry blood.

She was grieving. Tristan knew. The Brotherhood had a sick sense of family, and Ria had gone and murdered one of them. _Another _one. But that wasn't all. She just stared blankly at the dagger, her back hunched, her breathing alternating between deep and shallow. Tristan was familiar with the look. She looked like someone who was out of hope.

Tristan dismissed her and stared into the fire, thinking about other things.

_So, Ria knew the man, _he contemplated. _Basically told him to escape. But he asked where she was. So she ran from the Brotherhood? That makes sense, considering what happened in Ivarstead… Whoever this guy was, he could summon those demons. The hounds didn't attack after she killed their summoner, no, they screeched and ran. And I'd wager they ran to the head of the pack. The leader. And that makes Ria… _Tristan scrutinised the woman. _A target…_

Where else was she going to go? If the Dark Brotherhood got on her trail they weren't going to get off it. Had they forced her hand? Was she going to fight? What choice did she have? But of course, she already knew all of that.

Tristan scoffed. That _was_ interesting…

"He's dead?" Tristan asked shortly.

Ria shot him a look that would frighten a bear, but she nodded nonetheless.

Tristan didn't know if he believed her, but a chest wound like the one the elf had sustained was substantial and would require a lot of healing magic, healing magic he doubted Ria possessed.

"Well, Ria, congratulations," he mocked. "You are one step closer to your house in the Cyrodiilic countryside. Let's just hope the Imperials never find out that you almost betrayed them."

Was it spiteful? Yes.

But Tristan was too angry to care.

* * *

They returned wordlessly to Dragon Bridge, Tristan internally fuming, Ria wearing her greatest poker face. Perhaps she was mourning, perhaps she was plotting, perhaps both. Tristan couldn't know.

Tristan rode a few hours ahead of her, the only inkling that she was following the feel of the Trace.

He returned to Dragon Bridge ahead of time. He stabled his horse and made his way to the Imperial hideout to discuss matters, and while Rikke seemed impressed at their efficiency she appeared to have more dire things occupying her attention. Her hasty movements and short, sharp orders barked at other legionnaires a tell tale sign of this.

"Legate," Tristan bowed curtly.

"Tristan," Rikke returned with a nod of her head. "I take it Morthal was a success."

"Of course, Legate," Tristan said, recognizing that it was a statement and not a question. If they'd failed Rikke and Tristan wouldn't be having this conversation. "Legate, I've an issue to discuss with you," Tristan began.

"At a later time, Tristan," Rikke said, drawing a large circle on the map in front of her. "Our sources tell us another gate has opened in Windhelm. I need you and your mercenary friend to be there to help fight back the enemy. You know how to defeat them. Where is she, by the way?" Rikke added, noticing Ria's absence.

"Actually, Legate, that's what I need to –"

"Find her," Rikke said shortly, dismissing Tristan. "Take new horses from the stables and get to Windhelm full speed. We don't know how much longer they can hold out."

"Any word on how they've been doing so far?"

"Very little, I'm afraid," Rikke said darkly, grinding her teeth together. "So far only one gate has been opened, that's all we know."

"And what will you do?"

"From here? Nothing. But I have plants in Windhelm who know how to fight. They're strong and respectable warriors. They'll defend the city as best they can."

"But for how long?"

"No one can say."

"Then I'll make haste," Tristan said.

Rikke nodded. "Good luck."

Tristan returned the nod exited the building, walking briskly to the stables where two new horses – saddled and ready – were waiting. Ria was there also, handing the reins of her old horse to the stablehand, who nodded in thanks.

"On your horse," Tristan told her.

Ria scowled.

"We're needed in Windhelm," he continued before she could supply a response.

"No." The woman snapped. "One job. That was the deal."

"Your deal means nothing after the stunt you pulled in Morthal," Tristan argued harshly. "All you can do now is seek some sort of redemption. Unless you want three armies hunting you?"

Ria held his gaze with a fierce determination and stubbornness.

"Fine," she said. "But I never want to work with you again after this, Breton."

"I didn't expect anything less," Tristan murmured to himself.

"Why do they need us in Windhelm?" The woman asked.

"I've a sneaking suspicion you already know the answer to that."

Ria tensed. She mounted her new horse, Tristan following suit. Without so much as looking at each other the two whipped their reins, and the horses began to bolt for Windhelm.

* * *

They made good time, running non-stop from Dragon Bridge so that they might reach Windhelm by the morning of the following day.

As the City of Ysgramor rose into their view it was obvious that battle was taking place. Smoke poured from its walls and the clash of steel on matter echoed in the wind. Tristan reminisced, smirking at the dark irony, remembering the blood that the city had seen only some days before after they'd been sure Windhelm had been saved. His _"I told you so" _to the High King could wait, however.

Tristan and Ria exchanged little words as they made their way to Skyrim's capital, but as they got closer Tristan noticed that Ria began to physically deteriorate. It was fear, Tristan knew. He was afraid as well, but he was just a piece in a larger game. A game he intended to win.

Ria dismounted some ways away from the city, and upon deliberation Tristan did the same. They both allowed their horses time for rest and gave them an opportunity to escape the oncoming carnage, however considering how much the steeds had worked in recent past he wouldn't be surprised to later find them lying in the snow, their hearts and bodies having given out.

_If there is a later, _he thought guiltily.

"Come on." Tristan said gruffly, gesturing for Ria to follow him.

The woman did so, her hands nervously fiddling with her daggers.

"I'm heading straight for the gate," Tristan explained. "The sooner I can shut it, the better. If I'm lucky they'll be trying that already. If you do anything, try to help people escape, or get them to safety, or something." Tristan eyed her. "Do not run."

_And do not join our enemy._

Ria's lips tightened into a straight line, but she nodded.

The two were on the cobblestone bridge that led to Windhelm's main gate. The stones were wet with snow, ice, and fresh blood. People were dying, that was for certain. But now it was a question of just how many.

An arrow pierced the stones next to them, and in an instant Tristan was looking up to the walls and casting his Bound Bow. He drew back the ethereal drawstring and let an arrow fly, but his aim was too elementary and it sailed passed the head of the Void creature that had shot at them. He went to ready another but stopped when an arrow planted itself in the creatures' head, turning it to ash almost immediately.

Tristan looked to his side and saw Ria with her bow in hand. He never even saw her draw the arrow.

"Let's just get this done," she said shortly, shouldering her bow and drawing her dual daggers.

"Let's," Tristan agreed, shaking off a feeling of slight impressment as he summoned his Bound Sword.

The main gate of Windhelm was somewhat opened. It wouldn't close because of the body of a guard that was lying half in, half out of the city. Tristan swallowed heavily and pushed the gate open. Both he and Ria visibly tensed.

Windhelm may as well have been a plane of Oblivion. The citizens of the city were fighting the Void creatures, but they were tired from the battle days before, and this time the Void creatures appeared to outnumber them two to one.

He felt rather than saw Ria begin to backpedal. His arm lashed out and he grabbed hers.

"This doesn't end if you run," he said.

"We die if we go in there!" Ria barked.

"We die either way."

The words hung in the air, and Tristan silently prayed to the Divines.

Ria took a deep breath. "I hate you, Dorrien."

"As long as you stay to fight I couldn't care what you think of me."

"Whatever," she brushed off the comment. "You do what you have to do. I'll try to get people out of here."

With that she skirted around the inside of the walls, trying to avoid what fighting she could, but if a Void creature came close she dispatched it with deadly grace.

Tristan himself waded right into the thick of battle, dispelling his Bound Sword and putting up two of the strongest Wards he could muster. The shields of the Restoration magic forced the demons out of the way. Tristan carved a path through the battle, the fighting breaking around him like water breaks around a rock. By the time he made it to the end of the courtyard he was starting to sweat with the effort of maintaining the Wards. He cast his Bound Sword and – comforted by its presence – began to lash out at the things in front of him. The citizens of Windhelm saw him, and some recognized him and began to fight with more tenacity. Every time he cut down a demon he would raise a foot and kick it backwards, out of arms reach. He did this to stop the ash from the creatures' explosive deaths wouldn't affect him. While he didn't have to endure the brunt of the corrosive ash, particles would still find their way onto his clothes, and then to his skin. It was little more than a sting, but it was forgotten as Tristan moved forward.

"The portal is in the Palace," a citizen shouted above the chaos.

Tristan parried the strike of another creature and fell it, pushing it away from him to escape the ash. He looked towards the voice and raised a hand, signifying that he'd heard.

It was then that he was rocked by a searing, ice-cold pain. A tortured scream escaped his lips, and he looked to where the pain had come from, trying to make out what had happened through the tears that were springing to his eyes.

A crude, black blade slid from where it had gone through his raised arm. He spun around and slashed at the thing that had stabbed him. The Oblivion sword split its chest, but it laughed gutturally as it reached out and grabbed a hold of Tristan, it's malevolent red eyes boring into Tristan. He realised what the creature was hoping for, and Tristan threw up a Ward just as it exploded into caustic ash.

The Ward protected him from most of it, but some of it still managed to get to his clothes and skin. The burning sensation was annoying and somewhat painful, like tiny needles poking into his skin.

Tristan dispelled his sword and his hand immediately went to the wound on his other arm, clasping weakly as the blood pooled around his fingers. He stumbled up the stone stairs that led to the rest of the city and unconsciously found his way to a back alley, away from the fighting.

He inspected his wound and winced, the golden threads of healing magic seeping from his hand and coating the gash. His panting got heavier as the magicka drained from him, but the bleeding eventually stopped and the bones and muscles began to reknit themselves.

Tristan looked about him and almost laughed. This scene was cruelly familiar. He waited for some moments, trying to regather himself, figuring that a tired Tristan is of more use to Windhelm than an exhausted Tristan. He dared close his eyes and focused on his own heartbeat, the sounds of the battle fading from his consciousness. He looked inwardly and found his centre, and, drawing from it, stood, ready once more to brave the creatures from the Void.

He caught the Palace of Kings in his vision and made towards it at a jog so as to not completely exhaust himself. The sounds of war and death got louder now, and as Tristan approached the Palace of Kings without incident he anticipated what it was he would be faced with.

A courtyard full of demons facing a wall of shields to the Palace of Kings. The door was barricaded from the outside, and Tristan knew that they were trying to keep the Gate within. The demons were trying to penetrate the shield wall, recklessly throwing themselves onto spears and swords as they tried to free their brethren. Many of them were occupied with the shield wall while others were crossing blades with the guards and the citizens of the city, but the citizens were falling like flies, possessing neither the endurance nor conviction to continue this fight.

To his left Tristan was somewhat surprised to see Ria leading a family out of a building. They were all hunched over, trying to sneak to safety. She caught his eye and gave a small, tight-lipped nod. Tristan caught wind of the message.

_Consider us even._

Tristan returned the gesture before he turned towards the courtyard once more. Even fewer of Windhelm's people still stood, and the things from the Void were beginning to shriek in triumph.

For a brief moment Tristan wondered why he was even trying, but he extinguished the feeling and focused on the creatures and on the palace.

_The portal is in there, _he thought. _And if it's still open, I can shut it._

Time seemed to slow as he summoned his Bound Bow. He got off three arrows, two of them finding their targets while the third skirted harmlessly off of a wall. The creatures noticed him and one lunged. He smacked it with his bow and dispelled it, in turn vouching for a Bound Sword. He slashed and cut, felling the demons that rushed him. But he grew tired, and they held the advantage of numbers. Sooner than expected his form started showing gaps, and the creatures weren't the fools to leave those gaps unexploited. His instincts kicked in, and he seemed to lose track of his enemies as his body acted before his mind could catch up. He was on the defensive now, empty skin and malicious eyes beating him backwards, coming at him from one, two, three sides, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

A cloud of ash followed him as he backpedalled, bursting from the bodies of the creatures he'd already slain. He threw up a Ward in a desperate attempt to fend off the number of creatures attacking him, and their blades skirted off of the magical shield, causing them to shriek and disintegrate.

Tristan dimly noticed that the shield wall was pushing forward, and the creatures were being driven further and further from the palace doors. In his distraction his Ward flickered and died, and a feeling of numbness extended from his stomach.

He looked down in shock at the Void creature. It was reminiscent of a child, or at least was no larger than one. Its face split apart into a mean gash, and Tristan knew that this was it smiling. It pulled the dagger-sized blade from him and pranced off, leaving him to his own fate.

Tristan reflected with annoyance that he'd been stabbed too many times since his encounter with Maven Black-Briar all that time ago. The feeling of numbness spread to the rest of his body. He tried to summon his healing magic, but all it did was recover some bruises. He didn't have enough magic to heal a stab wound.

A Void creature stepped slowly into his field of view. Its face parted into the demented smile and it raised its arm, the blade forming around it.

_Well, I tried. _Tristan chuckled to himself, annoyingly witty until the very end.

A battlecry brought him back to reality, and a woman slashed at the creature with a dagger, opening its throat. Ash began to stream like blood, but she kicked the creature away and drew her bow, firing once at another demon that was nearing the fallen Breton.

"Ria," Tristan remarked, to tired to feel surprised. "Glad to see you."

"Are you kidding me right now, Dorrien?" the assassin asked.

"Well…"

"Shut up," she snapped. "I didn't save you because you're of any worth to me, so let's move on. Are you sure you can close the gate?"

"Normally yes, but as you can see I'm preoccupied with bleeding right now…" Tristan croaked.

Ria eyed him evilly, ill intentions so obviously in the look. She drew from a satchel at her side a small vial. A red liquid sloshed about inside of it.

"I'm not a vampire."

"It's a healing potion, you fool." Ria retorted. She unstoppered the vial and hurriedly poured the contents down Tristan's throat. Tristan hacked and coughed, but Ria slapped her hand over his mouth to ensure he'd swallow it.

As he drank Tristan regained feeling, and his wounds felt like they were being painfully restitched. He clenched his teeth and tried not to scream. But even through the pain he knew he was healing.

He held out a hand, but Ria simply shook her head. Tristan winced and pulled himself up.

"How do we get into the palace?" He asked, noticing the shield wall still fending off creatures on the opposite side of the courtyard.

"We climb." Ria said, gesturing towards an outside wall.

"You can't be serious?"

Ria sighed in frustration and made to move off. Tristan, seeing no other choice, followed.

* * *

Tristan struggled with the climb for two reasons, and both of them involved a recently healed over wound. Ria climbed next to him although he knew she could have scaled the wall thrice over in the time it was taking him to do it once.

The wall itself was caught between smooth and rugged, some stones being easy to grip and others having been eroded by the wind and the snow. Other stones were cold to the touch and coated with ice, making the climb all the more difficult.

Below them the battle had subsided, but only because the things from the Void had stopped rushing the shield wall and instead were standing ominously, seemingly staring down the Nords.

"Come on, Dorrien," Ria said through clenched teeth. Whether it was exhaustion or cold was a mystery.

"I'm getting there," is what Tristan wanted to say, but instead he incoherently exhaled.

At long last they made it to a window. Ria climbed in deftly and then reached out, gripping Tristan's sleeves and then pulling him roughly into the palace.

Tristan opened his mouth to talk.

"Shut up," Ria hissed, pointing down.

Tristan noticed that they had climbed in onto a balcony decorated with rich rugs and pelts, and that over the stone railing was the main hall of the Palace of Kings. The main hall was full of demons, some of which were barging against the door to escape. A portal was open in the centre of the hall in front of the throne, thick, black tendrils spreading like roots into the earth and the air, anchoring it to the world. On the throne the High King Ulfric Stormcloak sat. The High King looked unnaturally pale, and upon further inspection Tristan deciphered that dark shackles were holding his hands and feet in place.

"He's trapped," Tristan whispered.

Ria nodded beside him. "And presumably poisoned."

Tristan raised an eyebrow.

"Clammy skin, raised veins. It could be any number of poisons. I can't tell from here."

Tristan sighed helplessly. "Ok, let's shut this portal."

He moved, but Ria's hand shot out and held him in place.

"What are you doing?" He demanded.

"You'll be killed if you go down there. You're worth nothing if you can't cast your spells."

"So what do you suggest?"

Ria was silent for a moment. "I'm going to get the guards to open the doors and run. Maybe then most of the demons will get out of here."

She turned on her heels and snuck her way to the window before she soundlessly climbed out and – Tristan assumed – began to climb down.

Tristan waited for the doors to open, thankful for the time it would take for him to regenerate and muster his magicka. He stepped back from the balcony's edge and sat cross-legged, focusing on drawing magic from around him for the task ahead. This time he didn't have anyone to help him. This time he'd have to do it himself.

As if on cue the doors to the palace were opened from the outside. Tristan saw no one on the other side of the door, but he could only assume that Ria had somehow convinced the guards. At least he hoped so.

The demons seemed initially surprised, but soon their shrieks of triumph echoed throughout the palace and Tristan briefly registered covering his ears. They started to seep from the palace like the blood of an infected wound, leaving only the king, the gate, and Tristan inside.

Tristan understood that he only had moments to act. He didn't doubt that somehow the creatures would be able to feel if their portal was being attacked, so he had to act quickly and he had to do it right.

He hoisted himself over the railing and fell several feet to the stone floor. He landed heavily and jarred his legs. He winced at the pain and the noise and cursed himself for thinking that was a good idea. He gathered himself and took a step towards the gate. The gate itself wasn't much bigger than the last gate in Windhelm, however it was still big, and it radiated feelings of malice and unease. Tristan knew that he could burn himself to charcoal if he tried closing it alone. The Breton rubbed his hands together and glanced over to the High King, who sat soundlessly on his throne, his eyes staring into nothing, the only inkling that he was alive the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Tristan focused, forced all of his magic from his body into has arms, and then his palms, and then his fingers. His muscles spasmed and his fingers twitched violently as the magical energy drained from everywhere else in his being to the one spot, and he noticed a golden light getting brighter beneath the skin. The sensation was starting to throb, but the throb was soon replaced by a burning feeling. Tristan clenched his teeth and forced the magic to take shape, visualising with perfect details what it was he needed and what it was he wanted. At last he thrust his hands forward, and with a climactic _clap _the magical energy rushed from his palms, taking the form of a crystalline, gold-blue wall of energy. The energy crackled and arced, and moved forward until it met with the gate. The magic slowed when the Ward met the roots of the portal, and for a moment Tristan panicked, wondering if what he'd done were enough. He willed the magic forward, and the magic obliged, carving a slow pathway through the tendrils and the blackness that anchored the gate to the palace.

Figures began to step through the gate, black figures with red eyes. Their gaze met his and Tristan went cold. The figures made to advance, careless of the Ward that was eating away at the gate. Tristan figured the Ward would keep them away, but they stepped to each side and avoided it, continuing their advance.

Tristan was sweating, continuing to will the magic on, but knowing that he had nothing left to protect him. He pushed harder, hoping that when the portal left the Void creatures would decide to leave to.

An arrow from above planted itself in the first Void creature and it stumbled, a second arrow pinning the second one in rapid succession. Tristan looked to the balcony just as the form of Ria released a third arrow, and then a fourth, finishing the two creatures that had been coming for him.

"Hurry up, Breton!" The Assassin called, readying another arrow just in case.

Tristan exhaled and turned back to the gate, and with one final push willed the Ward forward. It ate the portal and removed its traces from the palace, but all Tristan saw were thousands of red eyes within, intent on him as a wolf was intent on its prey.

The space in the middle of the palace was suddenly empty. The Ward continued on and hit the wall, slightly displacing the stones before it too dispersed.

Tristan collapsed to his knees, panting heavily. He felt Ria's presence behind him and instantly assumed she'd done what he'd tried to do but successfully.

"It's done." Ria said shortly.

Tristan nodded and tried to blink away the black that was eating away at the corners of his vision.

The assassin turned to leave.

"I didn't sell you out," Tristan croaked.

Her footsteps stopped.

"I didn't get the chance," he chuckled weakly. "After today… I don't know if I will…"

"Stop babbling, Dorrien," Ria said. "This isn't politics."

Tristan sighed. "What I'm trying to say… Is… Although it's _objectively _unwise… The Empire won't learn of your… Past… With the Brotherhood, I mean…"

The last bit came out quiet and raspy, and although Tristan tried to speak he just couldn't hold on anymore. He slumped forward and into unconsciousness.


	15. Chapter 15 - Hardest Fought Battles

**Chapter 15: Hardest Fought Battles**

"I didn't sell you out." The Breton choked out as Ria was turning to leave, and she froze in her tracks. She'd spent most of the journey to Windhelm agonizing over what he'd said after returning to the stables from Dragonbridge. He hadn't been forthcoming with details, and she hadn't asked for any, and it'd left her unsure of where she now stood with the Empire- and whether or not they were only keeping her around to be used as a weapon, to be disposed of when the crisis was over.

But if the only one who knew about her past was Dorrien, she still had a chance at settling down, alive and whole, when things went back to normal.

"I didn't get the chance." His voice was raspy and painfully slow. "After today, I don't know if I will."

_Don't toy with me_. Ria thought hopefully, but didn't say.

"Stop babbling, Dorrien. This isn't politics." Came out instead.

Tristan made a wheezing sound that might have been a sigh. "What I'm trying to say is… Although it's objectively unwise… The Empire won't learn of your past… With the Brotherhood, I mean…"

He suddenly slumped forward, face-planting onto the floor. After a moment's hesitation, Ria knelt down to check his pulse. When she found one, she looked around, sighed, and dragged the Breton several yards to the wall, where she propped him up.

Ria adjusted her grey cloak, drew her daggers, and headed for the streets. She heard what remained of the battle the minute she stepped into the courtyard, and glimpsed it through the doorway; the Windhelm guards were where she'd left them, their numbers amplified by the surviving citizens who'd rallied around them. They were making a noble stand against the last of the Void creatures, but were taking heavy losses.

Ria hesitated, eyes darting from one skirmish to the next. Assassins weren't soldiers, and open combat was not the Imperial's specialty. Draugr, staggered out in, at most, trios, had been able to wound her in Hag's End. It was one of the reasons why she had been loathe to go through the front gates when she and Tristan had arrived at Windhelm.

Unless she fancied being the only person left alive in Windhelm, though, there was little alternative. She swallowed her instinct of self-preservation and went to work, cutting her way through the creatures.

There were perhaps twenty of them left, ranging from the forms of animals to humanoids the size of Orcs. Ria plunged through the thickest part of the battle, and gained most of their attention with every step. An unexplainable feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that it wasn't just because she was killing them; no, something in their murderous red eyes gave her the feeling that she was being deliberately targeted. It didn't surprise her, but it sent chills up her spine, and spurred her on.

Ria and the citizens of Windhelm gained ground, pushing into tighter quarters and intensifying the fighting. The half-Imperial was panting for breath as she moved; she had never had to fight this hard, for training or otherwise. She was using everything she knew just to stay alive, and it wasn't enough to make it out unharmed. As the tide turned against the Void creatures, the assassin was running on nothing but adrenaline. Blades cut through cloak, leather, and flesh, and three blows to the chest cracked and broke ribs. When there were no more black forms surrounding her, she slowed to a halt, swaying on her feet.

She gazed around at what she could see of the city. The dead outnumbered the living by a staggering number, and the wounded were adding to that gap every second that passed. The half-Imperial didn't know how Ulfric would be able to look at this and say that he didn't need help. It didn't matter how many families Ria had gotten out; the population of the city still had to be a fraction of whatever it'd been. They wouldn't be able to hold Ysgramor's City against a bandit raid, let alone a third attack from the Brotherhood's army.

"Commander!" she shouted, catching his attention easily; aside from the wind and the moans of the wounded, no one was talking. The commander limped towards her, and she met him halfway, grimacing. When they were close enough to talk normally, she said, "I'll be in the Palace. Send me a alchemist, and I'll see what we can do about your High King."

The Nord nodded. "I'll send Ingrid up when I can spare her."

Ria returned the nod, and turned to stagger through snow, ash, and blood towards the Palace of the Kings.

* * *

As she leant on the balcony railing, Ria watched the moon on its journey through the night sky. It calmed her, brought her back to the Khajiit folk-stories her father would tell her. The moons were important to her father's culture, to the point that the phases of them at the time of a cub's birth determined it's breed. Tonight, Secunda- Jone, as her father's heritage named it- took its journey alone, as it had on the night of her birth. It struck her as oddly symbolic.

Thought swirled around her head. For the first time in a long time, she finally had a moment to evaluate recents events. Things were happening too fast for her to process; it seemed that yesterday she had been sparring with Jared, joking with Lucian, enjoying the company of the other assassins in general. And then, in the span of a millisecond, she'd lost it all.

She sighed softly. All her life, she'd had a family around her, and now she didn't, and she hated how alone she felt. Hated how she missed her parents and her aunt and uncle and Jared and Lucian to the point that it made her chest ache. Hated how the guilt of having slain her Brother and Sister only put her further from everything she knew. She supposed it was a fitting feeling, given the state of the city below her.

Ria heard footsteps behind her and tensed but didn't turn. Someone stepped up next to her, and she glanced over to find the former Whiterun guard captain next to her. He looked exhausted after a day of battle, but Ria could find no pity for him. Not after what his subordinated had done a decade ago.

"I had a feeling I'd find you out here, Imperial." Ria nodded silently, and the commander continued. "There's a man down stairs asking after you. Didn't much like the look of him, but he said he was a friend."

If she was tense before, her spine was wooden now; any friends she'd had were probably plotting to kill her by now.

"Send him up."

When said friend came upon the balcony, they found Ria leaning against the railing, facing the door, bow drawn and aimed.

"On edge, Verres?"

Ria lowered the bow. "You would be too, Caius." The young Imperial soldier stepped onto the balcony, and Ria slung the bow over her back.

"I've seen the bodies. Our agents prevented what they could in the Grey Quarter and on the docks, but they weren't of much help here." There was silence for a long moment. "Rumor has it that you and Dorrien were quite proficient."

"We both nearly died."

"You signed up for this, Verres." The other Imperial said coldly.

"What do you want, Caius? What's so important that you came all this way?"

"We have a new assignment." Ria waited for the words 'for you', but they didn't come.

"We?"

"You, Dorrien, myself, and a few others."

Ria shoved off the railing, more violently than she meant to. "I'm _done_ working with Tristan."

"Only when I say you are." Caius snapped back, arms crossing over his chest. A second later, when she had suppressed the urge to strangle him for speaking to her as only Alistair and Lucian had ever had the right to, she leaned back against the rail.

"What's our mission?" She asked tightly.

"Riverwood has gone silent, and trade and travel through the town has cut off. We can only assume that it met the same fate as Whiterun."

From his understanding expression, Caius took the sudden grimness on Ria's face to be a reaction to the 'new' information. She pushed memories from her mind; if there was ever a night to try to forget, it was the one at Riverwood.

"What are we doing there? Surely you can't expect four of us to take back the town."

"No, of course not." Caius said. "While you and Dorrien were in Morthal, we sent our fastest scout to consult with the Restoration masters of Winterhold. He's retrieving an expert and the proper equipment, and we are to escort them to Riverwood and aid them in the capture of one of the creatures, so that it may be studied."

"Sorry, I must have heard wrong. Did you say we were going to _capture_ one of them?"

Caius glared openly at her. "Do you have a problem with that, Verres?"

"Where do I begin?" The statement was half outrage and half sarcasm.

"Save it. This is our assignment, whether you like it or not." There was something bitter in his tone, and Ria shot him a sideways glance.

"You're not happy about it either." She realized aloud.

"Orders are orders." He said with finality.

After a moment's silence, Ria asked, "When do we leave?"

"We have two days before the scout and the Restoration master arrive. Then we set out."

"With Dorrien."

Caius gave her a long, hard look. "Tristan Dorrien has proved to be as much, if not more of an asset than you. Whatever is between you two, I expect it to be resolved." Ria crossed her arms over her chest, and the other Imperial added, "And that's an order."

When Ria didn't reply, Caius stalked off. "Bother and befuddle." she sighed under her breath. No another phrase seemed to fit the situation quite so well.

* * *

Dorrien woke from unconsciousness the next day, and Caius informed him of his new mission almost immediately. For the most part, Ria avoided the Breton; no matter how much she disliked it, she had to find a way for the two of them to be civil to each other- both because of Caius's orders and their mutual job- and being around him wouldn't help the process.

So she filled the two day waiting period with thinking and remedial tasks. The first day, she set about dying her Brotherhood armor. The red and black leathers were easily recognized, and she had already run the risk of her grey cloak slipping off and revealing an assassin's armor for too long. Ria borrowed ingredients from Ingrid and foraged for what she didn't have, mixing them together to create a grey dye as her mother had shown her.

The first part of the process was spreading the thick liquid to cover every spot of red, and overlap onto the black. That in itself took several applications of the homemade dye, with an hour or so in between each to dry. When everything red- which was quite a bit- was now grey, along with a few random splashes of the color across big areas of ebony, she experimented with ingredients until she had a black paint. Then she reversed the last step and broke up any area of grey she deemed too large with splashes of black; when she was done, the leather armor was a dappled grey-and-black combination. It would break up her shape in darkness and, hopefully, look like it had been designed that pattern.

By the time her armor was done, she'd had the time to review everything she knew about Tristan. Maven Black-Briar had done something to him to warrant an assassination attempt; he was a good man, judging by his determination to help with the crisis of the Void creatures; he disliked the Brotherhood, either on basic moral principle or because of personal reasons.

Her progress was slower than she liked. For one, she was still mad at him for throwing her into open combat, especially the particular battle he did. She had betrayed the Dark Brotherhood, and the ride from Dragon Bridge to Windhelm had given her plenty of time to infer that the already-imposing Void creatures would be gunning for her specifically.

Then there was the fact that she couldn't think of Dorrien for very long without seeing Cirion dying in her arms, and Tristan, cold-eyed and stoic, refusing to help. That in itself created a puzzle: if Dorrien was the good man she sensed he was, why had he been so callous that night in Morthal? It wasn't just that he'd let Cirion die; it was that he watched her watch him die, and still wouldn't assist. Ria had a theory as to why, but it didn't make much sense compared to what she knew. After all, hate was a personal thing, and what had the Brotherhood ever done to him?

Ria was ashamed of how long it took her to put the pieces together.

It was the second day of the wait when it clicked. When it did, she was helping the Argonian dockworkers load supplies onto a pair of ships packed with fleeing people. The Argonians had taken only a few casualties during the invasion by escaping into the water, and she was thinking about how ironic it was that the lizard-men now made up a good chunk of Windhelm's population when it hit her: Tristan's revenge attempt on Black-Briar, his apparent hatred of the Brotherhood, the fact that Maven had been one of Alistair's biggest customers. It stopped her in her tracks.

The Brotherhood had killed someone Tristan loved.

It made sense, and it changed everything.

She thought back, seeing the reasons behind actions. He had trailed her from Ivarstead to Rorikstead, hoping he would get the chance to learn the Brotherhood's location. He had refused to help Cirion for the same reason Ria would have refused to help any of Nelkir's friends. He had a strong and mutual dislike for her because she was in league with the people who had taken someone from him.

A spark of guilt shot through her. She hated Tristan for his actions and his enactions, but she would have done the same thing, been just as suspicious and judgmental and infuriating if their situations were reversed. In fact, Dorrien was downright civil compared to what she would've been.

After a decade of killing people, Ria should've been used to feeling like the bad guy, but it still bothered her. Especially now, when she was realizing just how unfair her own judgments and dislike of Dorrien had been; especially since, despite everything, he still hadn't told Rikke of her past.

Ria spent the rest of the day brooding over the fact that she was in the wrong, and needed to be the one to try and smooth things over. She didn't want to- her mind couldn't seem to remind her of that fact often enough- but she had to. It was necessary, and it was the right thing to do. She and hers had wronged him just as much, and probably more, than he'd wronged her.

Caius's scout arrived just before sundown, with the Restoration expert and a backpack of equipment in tow. Caius introduced them to her; the scout was a Bosmer who opted not to give his name, and the mage was a Breton in his twenties named Corvan Marence. The latter pulled a thickly-corded net and iron shackles from the backpack, excitedly explaining that he'd enchanted them to fortify a person's life-energy, and that the demons' weakness to Restoration magic should give the items a subduing effect. He was obviously quite proud of having thought of it, and that boyish energy reminded Ria instantly of Cicero.

"We leave at first light." Caius said as they were leaving. "Get some rest. We aren't stopping until we near Riverwood."

But rest wasn't on the plan for the night. After an afternoon of thought, Ria had a bit of an idea of what to say to Dorrien, and she intended to say it privacy- ergo, before they left. So when Caius, the Bosmer archer, and Covan left the balcony where they'd found her, she sought out Tristan's room.

The door wasn't completely shut when she arrived, and Ria nudged it open and stepped inside. Tristan was standing next to the bed opposite her, packing things into a bag someone had loaned him.

"We need to talk." She said. The Breton jumped nearly out of his skin.

"Perhaps you've heard of this thing called knocking?" he asked sarcastically, body tense. Ria arched an eyebrow; it took him a second to realize that, with what she'd done for a living, one would quickly fall out of the aforementioned habit. "What about?"

Ria scanned the room; other than the bed and a nightstand next to it, the only furnishings were a wardrobe and a chair near the door. She eased forward, taking measured steps and staying against the left-hand wall. Tristan backed toward the right hand wall, hands coming part-way up. She didn't blame him; he was alone with an assassin.

She reached the nightstand, slipped both daggers from their sheathes, and set them on the wooden surface. Then she crossed back to the door, pulling the chair a few feet closer to the bed. By the time she looked back at Dorrien, he had relaxed somewhat; he still looked wary, though now also curious. Ria settled in the chair, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, and after a minute Tristan sat on the edge of the bed.

"It's seems we're stuck working together for at least a few days. So I'm going to explain some things, and hopefully by the end of it we'll come to some sort of.. understanding."

Tristan's reply was calm, matter-of-fact. "If you think you're-"

"What? That I'm going to what?" Ria snapped. "Manipulate you, talk my way into your good graces? Does that sound like a viable plan to you?" She remember that she was supposed to be mending fences, and deflated somewhat. "Look, I get it. You don't trust me. I haven't given you much reason to. So I'm going to say my piece, and then I'm going to go."

The Breton looked at her for a long moment, and nodded. "Ok then. Talk."

Ria looked down at her hands, and then back up. "I don't know what you think of me, but I have a good idea. So let me set something straight: I never wanted to join the Brotherhood. When I was a kid... I wanted to be a hunter. I was handy with a bow, knew all the game trails. When we got the offer to join, I tried to convince myself it was close enough to the same thing. It's not. Hunting doesn't keep you from sleeping at night."

The admission hung in the air. "We?" Tristan asked slowly.

"Jared and I. He was my best friend. My brother, really. We grew up together, our parents died together, and we hunted Nelkir down and then got the offer together." Ria looked down, swallowed hard. Lucian hadn't gotten that story out of her until two years ago, and Tristan was learning after less than… what, a month? Two? But withholding information wasn't going to help her case, so she continued. "He died. Right before my imprisonment in Solitude, actually."

Tristan's face was appropriately grim, but something flickered across it, like he'd just found a missing puzzle piece, or answered some question. "I'm sorry."

"Spare me. I doubt you're sad an assassin died. Got what he deserved, right?" She let out a small huff of amusement. "Maybe what I deserve, but not him. He was better than either of us. Braver, and selfless. He hated every second of every contract. You wanna know why we still did it? Because we didn't have any other choice."

Tristan shook his head. "There's always a choice."

Ria smiled coldly. "Hold on to that kind of thinking, Tristan. You're going to need that kind of optimism… Look, I'm not going to try and defend our decision. You don't understand what it was like." There was a second of silence. She had the sneaking suspicion she wasn't getting anywhere. "But I never wanted to hurt anyone."

It was the wrong thing to say. Tristan's jaw tightened, and anger sparked in his eyes. "Even if you didn't want to, you did. You killed people. You took them from their families."

"You don't think I know that?" She needed to stop snapping at him, but it was going to be a hard battle. "I can't undo anything I've done, and I have to live with that. You said it yourself; all I can do is try to seek redemption."

"All I've seen you seek is your own survival."

Frustration got the better of her- mostly because he was right- and Ria's hand slammed down onto the arm of her chair. "You know what?!" She was nearly shouting, and she lowered her voice. "I'll take most of the responsibility for the fact that we don't get along, but it's time you cut me some gods-damned slack. I gave up _everything_ when I left the Brotherhood. I could have sat back and helped this whole crisis along. I could have lived the rest of my life with someone I care about, someone I could have loved. Do you understand me? I walked away from a happy life because I couldn't do what they wanted me to. Because the price of my happy life wasn't worth it. So maybe, just maybe, you should give me some credit."

Ria didn't succeed in her effort to refrain from shouting, and by the time she was done, she was angry enough that her heartbeat had spiked. Tristan said nothing, and when she got her breathing back under control, she said lowly, "I'm sorry I haven't done what you would've. But the world's coming to an end, my family is going to hunt me down, and I'm terrified, and I don't know what else to do. I just want out. Away from all this."

Tristan looked away, seeming to think for a long moment. Seconds ticked by before he replied.

"You're right. I don't give you any credit, and I know that I haven't made it easy for you even when you've tried. You walked away from your family in the Brotherhood... I lost mine to them. You know, I remember my mother screaming at me to run, and after a few years I got tired of running... " He paused for a moment. So it was his parents, she thought, struck by the irony. A pair of orphans should have been able to understand eachother better. "I know what you can do in terms of skill, Ria, I saw it firsthand in Windhelm. I respect you, but whether or not I trust you, well... that's still a matter of debate."

Ria smiled thinly. This was a bit of progress, after all.

"I think I can live with that."

* * *

The group left at dawn. With no living horses to be found in the city, they were on foot, and Caius set a grueling pace. His route took them to Ivarstead; they arrived not long after dark, and the Imperial was handed the reins of a horse harnessed to a vendor's cart. From there, they navigated through the mountains around Helgen to approach Riverwood from the south. She knew the area well, and stopped the group when they reached Embershard Mine around midnight. It hadn't been an active mining site since a group of bandits had taken it over three years ago, and the bandits were long gone, allowing them to rest for a few minutes.

That next move was to scout ahead, which they did in two pairs. Ria and the Bosmer went first, watched for an hour, and returned again. When Caius and Tristan left and then returned from their own survey of the town's defenses, they had a good idea of the Void creatures' sentry pattern. Then came the plan. Caius and Tristan would provide a distraction; Ria and the Bosmer were the only ones quiet enough to do what had to be done, and so had the hard part. Covan would be waiting with the net and the horse-drawn cart.

They had to work quickly. Dawn was approaching, and the cover of darkness was one of the few advantages Ria and the Bosmer had. So as the stars were beginning to disappear, Ria found herself waist-deep in freezing water, huddled against one of the support pillars of the bridge that led out from Riverwood. Overhead, over the gentle rush of the water, Ria heard the footsteps of a Void-creature echoing off the stone. Her heartbeat picked up; any second now…

Then, from the other end of town, there was the _whoosh_ of flames, and she was in motion instantly, straightening and reaching up to grab onto the outside of the bottom arch of the structure, heaving herself up and scaling the side. In the span of a few heartbeats, she slipped over the railing and onto the bridge.

The humanoid Void-creature was facing away, looking toward the burning house on the opposite edge of town. Slowly and silently, Ria drew a thick length of wood from a sling across her back. It was as big around as her arm, and she still broke it across the demon's head; she would learn later that she shattered it's jaw, preventing the demon from shrieking. The near-horizontal swing drove it sideways, and Ria dropped the stump of wood and lunged forward, barreling into the already off-balance creature and sending them both over the rail and into the water.

The river swallowed them both, the gentle current carrying them along. She opened her eyes, and could make out the shape of the creature next to her; it was either unable to swim properly or weakened by the blow, and she locked her arms around it's neck in a sleeper hold. She didn't know if she could cut off its air supply, but she used the position to control its movements as best she could.

As the current sped up, it thrashed wildly, and she held on with all her strength. The creature twisted, flailed it's bladed arms wildly, and blood filled the water; Ria didn't even feel the blow land. The current picked up again, and her lungs began to scream for air.

Then there were hands on her arms and grabbing ahold of armor, and the Bosmer was there, pulling her from the river. The minute she was on solid ground, he moved on to haul a thrashing Void-creature out by the foot. Ria climbed to her feet and helped to subdue the creature; while the the Bosmer practically laid across one arm, trying not to be bucked off as he fumbled with the enchanted manacles, Ria held the ebony creature down as best she could, sitting on her knees on it's other wrist and leaning her weight on her hands on it's chest.

The Bosmer had just clapped the manacle on the creature's wrist when Caius and Tristan, out of breathe and wet from wading the river, arrived. With the help of the two men, they were more or less able to flip the creature over and pin it down; with a bit of fighting, the Restoration-enchanted shackle was closed around the demon's other wrist, locking it's hands behind it's back. Then Covan and the horse were there, drawn by the commotion, and the net was thrown over the still-thrashing creature. When it'd thoroughly tangled itself, the five of them heaved it up and threw it into the cart.

Ria was exhausted, and pain was beginning to lance through her hip where she'd been cut, but there was no time to rest; capturing the creature had already taken too long, and it's companions might have noticed. The group began to run, traveling south at first and following the river. The secluded forests of Falkreath would hide them well, and allow for a few days of rest. She should have been relieved; she was heading to the Hold that had seen some of her happiest memories.

It had never felt less like home.


	16. Chapter 16 - Infirmity

**Chapter 16: Infirmity**

The city of Falkreath appeared untouched by the Void and its army. Tristan mused that it was because Falkreath was as dreary and dull as it had ever been, and that it really held no strategic benefit for an army. To surmise, Falkreath was the most cold and boring city in Skyrim – and this was coming from a Breton whose home was Riften, where crime and corruption reigned supreme.

The five of them had moved as quickly as possible from Riverwood, their otherworldly captive in tow. They took the next day of travel harshly, not stopping for rest or even food. No one complained. The more distance put between them and Riverwood, the better.

They arrived in the forests that surrounded Falkreath, and Tristan picked up a change in Ria's mood. While he hadn't known the woman to be jovial in any sense, her mood came across as dampened. Tristan didn't know if this was for any personal reasons, instead he figured that a place like Falkreath Hold could do that to a person. Arriving in the city of Falkreath caused all of them to gape in surprise. The city was functioning normally, the only difference being that there were more guards on watch around the clock.

They stayed in Falkreath for some days. The jarl – after some convincing by both Tristan and Covan – agreed to let the pair stay in the dungeons, and keep their prisoner in one of the cells. And so it was that the two Bretons set up bedrolls in the dungeons, both to ensure the creature was always present and to satisfy their own curiosity. Although the creature was now the one and only prisoner in the dungeons the jarl had a guard stationed to keep an eye on the two.

"I'll be returning to Windhelm," Caius stated after a day of rest.

Tristan and the Bosmer (who never disclosed a name but who Tristan referred to as 'Duke') were flipping coins and trying to call how they'd land. Covan was observing the Void demon intently, and Ria was sitting in a corner, staring into space and absently twirling a dagger between her fingers.

Tristan looked up. "Oh?"

"I don't know if Rikke has made our presence known to Ulfric. If she has, I can help with negotiations," the man started. "If not I'll continue on to Dragon's Bridge and report our success to Rikke."

"I wouldn't call anything a success," Covan interjected. "We're yet to find a weakness in the creature."

"Maybe it's only weak to Restoration magic," Duke suggested.

"Duke might have a point," Tristan said.

"Please don't call me that."

"It'd be easier to call you your name, but you're a closed book. I gotta call you something."

The Bosmer crossed his arms in defeat.

"I refuse to believe this creature has only one vulnerability." Covan said.

"And if you're wrong and it only _has _one vulnerability?" Caius asked.

Covan sighed. "Then we have to prepare ourselves for that possibility…"

"Covan and I will think of something." Tristan said reassuringly. "We've already learned enough since Riverwood. Look," Tristan stood and gestured to the creature. "It has a broken jaw. Courtesy of Ria, we know that they can be injured. That means they can be maimed. Given time, we can observe how long it takes for these things to naturally – _if_ we can call it that – recover. When they're maimed they don't exude the ash, which means –"

"Which means in a battle we attack to injure, not to kill." Caius finished.

"Exactly." Tristan nodded. "Covan thinks that the demons could share properties with undead. We've enlisted the help of a smith to silver a weapon for us. It should arrive sometime in the next day or two. We'll see what happens."

"If nothing does?"

"We keep working." Covan stated bluntly.

Tristan pointed to Covan in agreement and sat back down with Duke.

Caius was in thought for a moment.

"I'll get you two as much time as I can. But Dorrien, be ready to report at any given moment. We may have another use for you. And you too, Verres."

Tristan gave a curt nod. Ria's eyes flicked to Caius, and then back to space.

Caius laid eyes on everyone in the room briefly, and then left.

The remaining four sat in the room in a lazy silence for some time, no one moving or even hinting that they wanted to continue on with their work.

Duke sighed and stood. "I'm checking in with the smith to see how that sword is coming along."

Covan waved an airy hand in acknowledgement and Tristan nodded.

Duke stretched briefly and made to follow Caius out of the dungeon.

"I'm leaving too." Ria said suddenly, standing herself.

"Where are you going?" Tristan asked.

"I don't…" Her voice wavered. "Home." And then she, too, left, leaving Tristan and Covan alone in the dungeon with the guard and the creature.

* * *

A day passed. And then two.

Duke arrived with the silver sword and said he was going home, lest he be bored out of his mind.

Tristan endured Covan's boyish babbling for the few days, not so much annoyed by it as he was tired. The Bretons quickly lost track of time as neither of them left the dungeon. The only hint of time passing was the guards that would change shifts every now and again, and the mediocre meals that were sent down twice daily.

Over the course of their time in the dungeons Covan scribbled on pieces of parchment with a stick of charcoal, however as time passed any notes or ponderies had been angrily scribbled out.

On the third day – or at least that's what Tristan assumed it to be – Covan was once more sitting cross-legged in front of the Void creatures' cell. Tristan sat with his feet on the table, flipping a coin for something to do.

On the eighth head in a row he put the coin on the table and gazed at the guard. He felt that the guard noticed his gaze, but refused to acknowledge it. He just stood silently, a shield on his back and a hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

_Their uniform makes them all look this same, _Tristan thought bitterly, standing up and moving to a place next to Covan.

"Those guards don't move." Tristan said quietly. "It's disconcerting."

"I find it more disconcerting that our prisoner has also not moved." Covan replied. "It hasn't even tried to escape."

"That is a point of concern."

The two stared into the cell. The Void creature raised its eyes and stared back, its blood red gaze full of fire and vengeance. A chill went up Tristan's spine and he looked away.

"It's shrugged off all the magic we have. Lightning, fire, ice, all of it –"

"Does little to harm it. Granted our knowledge on Destruction is limited."

"We can't conjure anything because –"

"It might kill it."

"And we can't use restoration magic because it's –"

"_Guaranteed _to kill it. Yes."

"So our options are rather limited." Covan finished with a wry grin.

"Well… we still haven't tried the silver sword."

"We discussed this, Tristan. Although the prisoner is restrained there is no knowing the amount of danger we would put ourselves in by entering its cell."

Tristan rolled his eyes. "And what about its jaw? We don't know if it's healed itself yet. We'd have to go in the cell to do that."

"Tristan –"

"I'm doing it," Tristan got to his feet and collected the silvered sword. It was of iron work, and it was made well enough. However it wasn't the quality of the iron that mattered, but rather the coating of silver that Tristan hoped would inflict some damage. He took the cell key from a hook near the dungeons entrance and went to the cell door of the demon. He addressed Covan. "It's occurred to me that we haven't made any efforts to commune with it."

Covan was already shaking his head. "It is a creature without reason, hence it cannot be reasoned with."

"If that thing makes a move, use some Restoration magic. Kill it."

Covan nodded.

Tristan unlocked the cell and carefully, quietly, entered. He was unsure if it was unsettling, but the creature didn't look up or do anything to acknowledge that something else had entered its space. Tristan skirted around the edge of the cell, intending to approach the creature from behind. As he did he noticed that Covan's shackles were holding firm, the sigils holding their magic pulsing lightly with a golden-blue hue. The creatures arms were locked in the shackles, and the wrists were the only part of it to take solid shape. Close up Tristan could see the things skin rippling and shifting, as if to make it so that its body appeared invisible in darkness.

This close to the thing from the Void, Tristan had to admit that it was tempting to attack it, however helpless it may be. Inflicting grievous harm on it would quench some of the anger he felt towards the devil and the rest of its loathsome kind, however he was here to find a weakness and not further his own vendettas.

Tristan reached out with his free hand and touched the spot where Ria had attacked it with a block of wood. The creature was cold to the touch – so much so that it burned. Tristan winced, but felt that its jaw had repaired.

"Tristan," Covan said. "Something's happening."

The creature had looked up, and now he noticed that where before its skin had been a deep, empty black, trails of red were streaking beneath its skin like tails of fire.

And then the fury set in.

In an instant Tristan had plunged the silvered sword into the things shoulder. It screamed, but the noise felt like it was far away, obscured by Tristan's own rage.

He shifted his grip on the sword and pushed it forward, severing the shoulder even more. Finally, he wrenched it out, and with it the arm fell to the floor. Tristan blinked, and in that moment the demon was on its feet and pushing him back against the wall. Its severed arm was still connected to its other arm with the shackles, however now it had control of one of its limbs.

The creature looked deep into his eyes and its mouth split into a grotesque, horrifying grin. The only thing keeping Tristan's fear at bay was the smouldering, cold anger filling his soul.

A wall of light sprung between Tristan and the creature, and the Breton felt gloved hands clamp around his arm and drag him away.

The guard wrenched Tristan from the cell and pushed him behind him, standing with his shield as a wall between he and the enemy. Covan had the light of Restoration magic spilling from his fingers, and he used the ward to keep the thing from the Void away as he exited the cell and locked the door.

The creature looked hurt by the magic, but as soon as it was locked in again it sat back down, its severed arm lying limply by its side.

The guard removed his shield, sheathed his sword, and made his way back to his post. Covan was panting, and for the first time in the few seconds that had passed Tristan felt as if he had control of his mind, as if a fog had been cleared.

"What were you thinking Dorrien?!" Covan was furious, which was a drastic change from his boyish nature. "You could have killed our specimen!"

"I… I don't…" Tristan swallowed. "That… thing, it… Are there mages at Winterhold that can access the mind?"

Covan's fury quickly turned to confusion, and then curiosity. "Yes, there a mages that certainly wield magic of that kind. It's not a simple process, but it is indeed possible. Why?"

"The walker has a mind. I touched it and I felt it pass on to me some insatiable anger, as if it were trying to impress it upon me." Tristan was talking at speed, trying to make sense of his thoughts just as they were turned into words.

"The walker?"

"Yes, yes, that's what they're called." He clamped his eyes shut. "It told me… just now."

"What else did it tell you, Tristan?" Covan's features were hungry for knowledge, but the question was asked in an earnest tone.

The younger Breton shook his head. "I… can't remember. I'm sorry."

Covan exhaled in defeat, but put a reassuring hand on Tristan's shoulder and squeezed tightly. "You should rest."

Tristan nodded in agreement.

"It seems I'm in need of some new way of restraining this 'Void Walker'. Shackles are hardly effective when they are only effectively restraining one arm."

"I am sorry, Covan."

Covan waved away the apology. "It's not a worry. I already have a new idea, though the enchanting process may take a day or two." He settled into thought. "I'll go to the local smith. Until I return, you rest. Don't go trying to come into contact with the prisoner in my absence. Oh! Is it healed?"

"Aye," Tristan affirmed.

Covan frowned. "That is a worry. If it can heal broken bones at a rate of at most three days, our armies may have trouble competing."

Silence.

"Food for thought," Covan said at last, and then left.

Tristan lay down on the stone floor, ignoring his bedroll not two metres away. It was cool and pleasant, but Tristan was too busy pondering another string of words the walker had left with him. It took him time to work them out, but he slowly and finally remembered.

He frowned.

_The dead far outnumber the living._

* * *

Another two days passed, slow as they were, with little progress.

Covan spent his time enchanting a neck shackle with an enhanced version of the same magics that the original shackles possessed.

"With this," he said when Tristan asked, "it should be able to move when we move it, but not off its own accord."

Tristan never bothered asking about how exactly that worked, preferring to focus on… what?

What would he focus on?

He was well aware that he had no inkling as to what the Void Walker would be weak to. Perhaps Duke was right, and its only weakness was Restoration magic. While the School of Restoration was popular among healers and clerics, few mages with any reputable skill in battle possessed the knowledge to cast such spells. He instead distracted himself with walking about Falkreath for air, and flipping the coin in the dungeon, now recording what side landed face-up on each toss.

Ria returned silently in both movement and presence, so much so that Tristan didn't notice her until she approached him.

"Ria. You're back." Tristan said, trying to hide his surprise.

Ria nodded and opened her mouth to speak, but hesitated.

"What's wrong, Ria?" Tristan asked slowly. "You're being uncharacteristically quiet."

Ria smirked weakly. "I'm not known to be outspoken, Dorrien."

"This is a different kind of silence."

No response.

"So?" Tristan prompted.

"We need to talk." Ria said quickly. She glanced around the room, to Covan and then to the guard, and to the Void Walker that looked up when she'd entered.

Tristan understood what she was getting at. "Yes, let's," he said, standing. "But let's go for a walk. I need some fresh air."

Ria almost sighed with relief when Tristan understood.

The Breton took the lead, up the stairs and out of the dungeon, into the longhouse, and then past the hearth burning at its centre and into the icy streets of Falkreath. He gestured with a nod and the two began to slowly make their way to the city gates.

"What did you learn?" Ria asked, the smallest hint of curiosity in her voice.

Tristan humoured her. "Less than we'd like. Silver does nothing to them, and they heal from physical injuries at an unsettling rate. I _have _learned that they can – I suppose – transmit negative emotions. My theory is they can impress thoughts and feelings on contact."

"Like a conversation?"

Tristan's mouth curled into a wry smile. "It's a very one-sided conversation."

They continued outside of the gates, and then further along the cobbled road until Falkreath was barely visible. Tristan preferred to keep Falkreath in sight, so he stopped walking and faced Ria. The woman noticed and stopped as well, taking some moments before turning and facing him. Tristan assumed she was searching the area for any enmity.

"You were gone for a few days, Ria." Tristan stated. "Not communing with the Brotherhood behind our backs, I hope."

Ria looked at Tristan with both hurt and anger, but the Breton raised his hand in an innocent gesture.

"Just kidding," he said with a small chuckle. "I've been preoccupied. No time to think about whose side you're on. You said we needed a chat?"

The hurt and anger slowly subsided. "You're not funny." She said flatly.

Tristan grinned in response. He felt as if he were annoying her, but she quite stubbornly refused to betray her emotions.

She also didn't continue the conversation. The look on her face told Tristan she was trying to grasp at the words but just couldn't quite find them.

"Ria," he started. "I genuinely hate to admit it, but unlike the rest of your… _detestable _faction –"

She winced.

"–you strike me as someone who has been caught up in circumstance for a lot of your life. "

Ria's eyes darted down, and then came up to meet his gaze.

"What happened to you?"

Ria shifted uncomfortably, as if she was trying to stay stoic but whatever was flying around in her head caused her discomfort, even pain.

"Not much to tell, really." She started. "Mama was retired from the Legion, and Papa was a Khajiit who came to Skyrim with the caravans."

Tristan raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Khajiit?" He never pinned her to have Khajiit blood in her.

Ria pushed her hair behind her ear and turned her head, so he could see the slight point her ears came to.

"Khajiit breeds are determined by the moon cycles." She explained. "I would have been Ohmes-Khajiit. They're almost identical to Bosmer, and I take after Mama on top of that." She let her hair fall back. "Jared's father Marcellus served with Mama in the civil war, and they settled on a farm near ours. It was a quiet life. A good one."

Tristan smiled slightly, but warmly. "That's… good to hear. But I mean what happened to you with the Brotherhood? What made you decide that you would kill as a profession? What _happened _Ria?"

Ria hesitated. "We were sixteen, I think. The Jarl's son joined the guards when he was passed up for succession. He was never quite right- there were rumours of Daedra worship. So the brilliant commander of the Whiterun guards thought putting him in charge of a squad was a good idea. He was so eager to prove himself, and Khajiit are known as skooma-dealers, so..." She shrugged, but looked away. "Jared and I were out hunting. Mama and Papa had Uncle Marcel and Aunt Aemilia over. Something must have gone wrong, because when we got back, the house was up in flames, and they were all still inside." There was silence for a long moment.

Tristan found himself gazing into nothingness. The house in flames was scarily familiar. Ria had lost her family, like him. They'd just found different ways to deal with it, and for that he found it difficult, even heinous to judge her. Besides, he had made to kill Maven Blackbriar…

Ria spoke again. "Nelkir ran. He'd killed four citizens without probable cause. The Jarl wanted him brought back alive, but... you have to remember, we were sixteen. We watched him put out the torch he used to set the house on fire. We could hear them screaming. And we had our bows and Jared's hunting knife." She glanced at him and away again. "We buried our parents the next morning, and Nelkir made it to Morthal before we caught up with him. Alistair found us after that. He was in charge of the Brotherhood, at the time."

Alistair. The name meant nothing to Tristan, but it was a name. A name he would – at some point – add to the list.

"And the Brotherhood promised you… vengeance?" He said slowly.

Ria didn't respond. He noticed how her posture had changed. Her shoulders slumped, and her fists were clenched, and her jaw was weak.

Tristan reached out hesitantly and placed a hand on the woman's shoulder. He squeezed reassuringly, and her eyes, again, rose to meet his. There was a moment of silence. She didn't shrug his hand off like he'd expected, but instead she let him take it away.

Tristan took a breath. "Ria. I need to know what you know about the Void. Please."

Ria nodded, as if her mind was finding the track that it started on, but still she shrugged. "I know some, but not a lot. I've been there."

"I'm sorry?" Tristan interrupted.

"The Void." Her voice was firmer now. "They're army is… huge. It's like nothing you've ever seen. They have the souls of every victim the Brotherhood has sent there, flickering like candles in the emptiness."

"Those souls must be the soldiers. It only makes sense," Tristan said absently.

Ria offered him a look of confusion.

"The Void Walker told me that 'the dead far outnumber the living' when I touched it," Tristan clarified. He laughed sardonically. "That must mean they're army is beyond anything Tamriel could muster… Please, go on."

Ria looked thoughtful for a moment. "There is a liaison called the Conduit. It's like the other Void creatures, but it talks. And it's missing an arm. It left the arm on this plane so that it could move between the physical world and the Void. Lucian said that this arm – the Black Hand – connects us to the Void. But while part of the Void exists here, part of here exists in the Void. The Black City, where I went, is a manifestation of our world within the Void. That's what I was told, anyway."

Tristan's mind was going above full speed. "So, in theory, while the Black Hand is still on Nirn the gates can still open. And this Black City is a place that we can feasibly exist within the Void."

"I guess it's not _im_possible." Ria responded, seemingly unsure.

"And where is this Black Hand now?"

Ria looked at him. "Whiterun."

Tristan cursed. He knew they'd never be able to get into Whiterun, even with an army. The only possibility was drawing the enemy out, but even then the odds were slim – he doubted them to be fools.

"Thank you, Ria," Tristan said earnestly.

Ria offered a weak smile, though he could tell her heart wasn't in it.

"C'mon," Tristan said, gesturing with a nod of his head. "We should go. Covan may have had a breakthrough."

* * *

Unlike Tristan had hoped, Covan had not had a breakthrough.

He sat in front of the cell once more, in intense thought. Tristan returned to flipping his coin, and Ria sat in the corner, eyes darting between the two Bretons.

"_This _is what you've been doing for the last four days?"

"It is _really _hard to think of things that the creature could be vulnerable to." Tristan said defensively.

Ria huffed and sat in the corner furthest from them.

"I've a thought," Covan started. "It's rather unsettling. I'm sure the creature could open a gate and invade Falkreath, possibly even killing us. So why hasn't it?"

The idea interrupted Tristan's thoughts. He fumbled with the coin and dropped it. It bounced across the floor with metallic clicks, finding its way between the bars of the creatures' cell, before it lost its bounce and started to roll.

"Excuse me?" Tristan questioned.

"Well, nothing has seemed to indicate when or where a gate would open. Perhaps all it requires is the Void Walker's presence to-"

A pained, unholy shrieking broke through Covan's words, and Tristan clamped his hands on his ears in shock.

Ria instinctively drew her daggers and the guard unsheathed his sword. Tristan cast his gaze to where the noise was coming from, and his eyes rest on the creature. The shrieking continued, and with effort Tristan took his hands from his ears and summoned the golden-blue ribbons of Restoration magic to his hands.

Covan noticed and joined him, and together the Bretons projected the magic onto the creature. For a second the creatures' shrieking got worse, and then, in an instant, there was silence…

Tristan's ears were ringing, but after a minute or two it became a dull buzz.

"Well, we killed our specimen," Covan said flatly. "Why was it making that noise?"

Tristan collected the key and unlocked the cell, moving in and seeing a small pile of ash where the Void Walker once was. He reached down and collected his coin, and held it up for everyone to see.

"Gold." He said, a boyish grin plastering itself on his face. "They have a vulnerability to gold."

Covan thought for a moment, but soon he smiled as well.

"I have an idea," Tristan addressed Covan and Ria. "But it involves some travel."

"Care to let us know what it is, Dorrien?" Of course, that was Ria.

"Well, I need to go to Windhelm first to collect someone. I imagine the refugees from Whiterun are still there."

"And then?"

"Winterhold. I need to go to Winterhold."

Ria's eyebrow arched.

"Well, if you're going that way anyway," Covan started. "I'll return to compile my notes and inform my fellow mages. I will alert them to your potential arrival in the coming days."

"Thank you Covan," Tristan was already packing his few belongings – the bedroll, some rations, notes, and other miscellaneous items. "And you, Ria?"

"You ask as if I have a choice, or anywhere else to go." She said.

"So?"

Ria shrugged helplessly. "Sure."


End file.
